


starving

by hexmionegranger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American Football, Angst, Background Poly, Coming Out, Explicit Language, Fluff, Football, Gangs, Gay Panic, Homophobia, M/M, Mild Smut, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-08 00:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8821915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexmionegranger/pseuds/hexmionegranger
Summary: Marcus stepped closer again, lifting up a hand, but before he could speak Oliver cut him off.“I don’t know what the fuck that was, Flint. But I’m not…” He shook his head. “I don’t…” Oliver wanted to scream and throw his hands up in the air. “I’m not fucking gay! I don’t want… Don’t… don’t do that again.”Marcus’s hand dropped and he flinched back as if he had been stung. “Great. You’re not in the closet, you’re fucking in denial. Even fucking better.”





	1. save a horse, ride a cowboy

**Author's Note:**

> the more that I know you, the more I want to  
> something inside me's changed  
> I was so much younger yesterday, oh  
> I didn't know that I was starving 'til I tasted you
> 
> \- starving by hailee steinfeld

The first time Oliver Wood met Marcus Flint was at football practice. Oliver had been recruited on a full scholarship and had only just moved halfway across the country, and already he had found someone he didn't like. He couldn't quite put a finger on why. There was something about Marcus, about his swagger and laugh and _voice_ that rubbed him the wrong way. 

Marcus was a second year student who cared more about football than nearly anyone else Oliver had met. Unfortunately, he didn’t actually seem to care about his teammates or any other people at all, other than a small tight knit group of friends. It seemed like he took one look at Oliver, from his sunburned skin from days in the sun right down to his scuffed old work boots and decided that Oliver would absolutely _not_ be one of those friends.

It didn't help that in the locker room after practice he heard Flint laughing with one of their other teammates (whose name might have been Adrian? Oliver wasn’t sure) about how many _hicks_ the school had and how it wouldn't have been like that when their _fathers_ went here. He always seemed to have too much gel in his hair and his outfits looked like they cost more than Oliver made in a week of hard work. There was something about him that gave off the air that Marcus had never really worked a day in his life, and though he wasn’t flashy, his poise and wealth seemed to radiate off of him.

All Marcus was was a stuck up city boy and a self righteous legacy, Oliver convinced himself. Stupid tall Flint with his stupid sharp jaw and perfectly crisp voice. He was such an asshole.

Oliver hated him. That was the only answer. There was no other reason why he should _care_ so much, why he should look up every time he heard someone else in the locker room just in case it was him. It was just hatred.

* * *

Things were tense between the two of them. On the field Marcus regularly bumped into him, tripping him up so he ruined plays and snickering when the captain - a muscular redhead with a manbun - shook his head in frustration. Once they had ended up so close to punching each other that two of their teammates physically had to hold Oliver back. He wasn’t even entirely sure how it had started - a quip about the ratty state of Oliver’s jeans or an offhanded remark about his mother, probably. 

 _"You think you learned enough about fighting at your prep school to take me on?"_ Oliver had shouted back in response, and Flint threw back his head and laughed. 

Oliver wanted to tear his throat out. He wasn’t usually that aggressive of a person, at least outside of games, but something about Marcus made his stomach clench and his blood boil. 

The fight they got into a week later in the locker room was worse. Marcus had slammed Oliver against a locker and pressed his body into Oliver's and pinned down his arms. He didn't look as strong as he was. 

Oliver blamed the fact that he was in the midst of a dry spell as to why his body had _reacted_ the way it did. It was only natural, when you had someone warm pressed up against you, their hips aligned with yours, right? 

But Marcus had _noticed_ and his eyes darkened even more (if that was possible) and his lids had fluttered and he _swallowed_ in a way that made Oliver entirely unsure about whether or not he actually wanted to tear out a throat as pretty as that one.

Luckily, (luckily? _Unluckily_? Oliver still wasn’t sure) the locker room door had slammed open and Marcus jumped back and Oliver had spun around so it wasn’t so _obvious_ that he had reacted like that and put the entire incident out of his mind.

At least, he _tried_ to.

* * *

Despite the odd tension that was still building between Oliver and Marcus, the team pulled together and won their first game of the season. Of course, the other team they were facing weren’t exactly known as being particularly _good_ \- but that didn’t exactly matter when you were high off the win of a game.

And the team had decided that they needed to celebrate, which was why Oliver found himself in a dingy karaoke bar on the far side of town, nursing a bottle of beer and watching his teammates make fools of themselves. Luckily, no one seemed to care all that much that more than half of them certainly weren’t old enough to be drinking legally. Flint arrived late, of course, with his hair gelled perfectly and his shirt just a little bit too tight. Oliver was sitting at the bar still when Marcus arrived, and the man leaned up against it next to him to order his drink.

Oliver could feel _eyes_ on him and he turned his head to glare at the man beside him. Marcus was clearly suppressing a laugh as he watched Oliver, and it was unnerving.

“What?” Oliver asked, taking a larger swig of his drink.

“You’re a walking stereotype.” Marcus responded, accepting his gin and tonic and turning a little to survey Oliver further. “You literally looked like you walked into this bar off a _farm_. Faded levi’s and a plaid shirt? Seriously? Are you wearing those old work boots as well?”

Oliver subconsciously stuck his feet a little further under the bar so Marcus wouldn’t see that he was, in fact, wearing his beat up pair of boots. “Least I don’t look like some rich pretty boy with too much fuckin’ gel in his hair.” He mumbled, but before Marcus could respond their captain stepped up beside them.

“Boys!” Boomed the perpetually too-loud voice of one Charlie Weasley. Another small-town boy, Charlie’s hair was pulled up in his typical bun, and with an arm covered in tattoos and a well-fitted leather jacket he looked like he would have been more comfortable on the back of a Harley than here in the bar. Apparently he had six siblings; the eldest had just graduated and the next one after Charlie was a first year like Oliver, studying politics and completely unfit for (and uninterested in) sport. “Neither of you are drunk enough for proper celebrating.” Charlie shot a look at the bartender, who returned with six shot glasses. She poured them all and winked at Oliver, and then went back to the other customers. “Let’s go!”

Oliver sighed and picked up a glass in each hand, and then glanced over to Marcus and Charlie. Resigning himself to a sloppy night, he tossed back both of his shots and forced himself not to cough on the alcohol that burned down his throat.

The night wore on and Oliver kept drinking. At the very least, most of his teammates were quite a lot of fun. The girls soccer team had shown up at one point as well and Oliver had settled in at a table with Charlie, a pink haired girl who refused to explain why she went by the name _Tonks,_ and another few of the older players. The girls were having a headed discussion about the blatant sexism of not having a women’s football team, and goading Charlie on with the fact that if they had, the boys wouldn’t stand a chance. Between the fierce look in Angelica’s eyes and the smirk tugging on Katie’s lips, Oliver thought he probably might agree with them. 

“Ollie, do you sing?” Tonks asked, turning her head towards him and grinning. There was a karaoke machine at the front of the room that had been getting heavy traffic for most of the night, and had only just opened up.

Oliver shook his head with far more force than necessary. “Not so much.” He admitted, and took another gulp of his beer. He was happily drunk now, swaying a little in his seat and unable to wipe the grin from his face.

“I think you should go do a song for us!” Tonks insisted. Charlie boomed out his laugh and slung an arm around the girl’s shoulders.

“Nymphy, you’re my best friend, you know that?” His speech was slurred and his eyes were glossy and Tonks didn’t even look up at him as she smacked a hand against his chest.

“You watch yourself, Weasley.” She warned, but didn’t take her eyes off Oliver. “Come on, Ol! It’ll be fun! You might catch the attention of one of the soccer girls.” Tonks leaned over so she could see over Oliver’s shoulder and wiggled her fingers at a group of girls at the bar, who tittered with giggles and pulled their heads closer together, clearly to discuss the situation.

“I dunno.” Oliver insisted, but his brain was saying that hey! It might actually be fun! And maybe he should give it a go! Besides, he should probably be trying a little harder to get laid - it had been a while. And how often did his brain lie to him? 

Well.

“O-liv-er! Ol-liv-er!” Tonks started to chant, smacking her hands on the table. Charlie joined in enthusiastically and soon the entire bar was chanting his name and smacking their tables and Oliver stood up to raucous applause, and bowed dramatically for the crowd before making his way over to the machine.

There weren’t many songs that he even really recognized, but his eyes landed on one and he couldn’t help the grin that spread out over his face as he hit the button and picked up the microphone. The music started to blare through the bar speakers, a heavy beat and twangy melody and a group of people in the back of the room cheered. Oliver cleared his throat and lifted the mic up to his mouth.

Marcus hadn’t been paying much attention to what was happening at the front of the bar. In fact, he was mostly trying to tune out whoever was singing that same goddamn song by Journey that everyone sang all the time. He was at a table near the back with a few of the other guys who he had bonded with. They all quieted a bit as the music started up again, and then one of them, Cassius, laughed. “Can you believe this is the song he picked? What a fucking _joke_.”

Marcus, who always loved when people made a fool of themselves, lifted his head just in time to lock eyes with Oliver, as the man at the front of the room his the chorus and belted out “everybody say- save a horse, ride a cowboy!”

Which, yeah, in Marcus’s world that would normally make someone a total joke. For a dumb kid from the south, who was vocal and proud of the fact that he actually did work on a farm and actually _was_ kind of a cowboy, to show up at a bar in a _plaid shirt_ and then pick a song by Big and Rich for karaoke? 

Except. 

Except Marcus couldn’t ever seem to fully buy into the fact that Oliver was a joke, as much as he knew it intellectually. “Yeah.” He agreed, but kept his eyes trained on the front of the room.

The rest of the bar was absolutely loving Oliver’s performance, cheering at him and shouting along with the chorus. Except, Oliver had gotten stuck looking at the back of the room, where he had realized Marcus Flint was _watching_ him, which was really unnerving, especially in his drunken state. 

Somehow, Oliver managed to make it back home and into bed more or less in one piece. And even though he was tired, his drunk brain spinning and hazy, he couldn’t seem to erase Marcus’s face from his mind. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to.

* * *

The team won the next game of the season.

At least, that was what Oliver had heard afterwards. They had won the game, but during the last quarter he’d been tackled pretty badly and smashed his head. Apparently, after a brief black out, Oliver had managed to stumble off the field and Charlie happened to notice that he wasn’t going in a straight line and they sent him straight to the ER. The last thing he remembered was closer to the middle of the game.

Oliver woke up trying to blink away the bright lights shining down in his eyes. When his vision steadied he realized that the ceiling above him was most certainly not the ceiling in his bedroom, and he turned his head. He was not prepared for the sight he was met with.

Marcus was sitting on a chair next to the bed, one foot propped up on Oliver’s bed frame. He was still wearing his uniform though his helmet was nowhere to be seen, and his hair was sweaty and splayed across his forehead. There was a smudge of dirt across his jaw and his eye black was streaked with sweat down his cheeks. He was hunched over his phone and didn’t seem to notice that Oliver was awake, until Oliver cleared his throat.

Marcus’s head shot up immediately and some of the tension seemed to drain out of his shoulders. All of a sudden his expression shifted, his eyes narrowed and he leaned forward to glare at Oliver. “What the _fuck_ was that about, Wood?” He snapped.

Oliver frowned. “Uh…?” He tried to work back through his brain but had no clue what Marcus was talking about - the last thing he could recall was running down the field. “What?”

“Honestly? Like how fucking _dare_ you, what were you _thinking_ I mean, were you even thinking? Probably fucking _not-_ ”

“Flint.” Oliver tried to cut him off, and when Marcus’s tirade didn’t stop he raised the volume of his voice. “Marcus!” That seemed to work. “I have literally no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

Marcus threw his hands up in the air and gestured around them. “You nearly _died,_ you fucker!”

Oliver tried to process this. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened, or _why_ he was in the hospital, or even why Marcus was the one who had been chosen to sit sentry by his bedside. But he had this tiny nagging sensation that it probably wasn’t entirely his fault. “I’m really confused right now.” He mumbled.

Marcus let out a sharp laugh and leaned back. “Yeah. That’s the concussion.”

Oliver lifted a hand up to rub at his head but nothing felt wrong. So he tried to sit up. All of a sudden, the entire room swam around him and Marcus split into two people and before he could stop himself, Oliver leant over the railings of his bed and emptied the contents of his stomach. All over Marcus’s cleats.

“Fuck.” Oliver mumbled, and fell back against the bed, lifting a hand to wipe over the bottom of his face.

“ _Fuck_.” Marcus agreed, wrinkling his nose. “Just. Don’t ever fucking tell anyone you just vomited all over me. Charlie went to call your mom. I’m going to shower.” And then he was gone, and Oliver was left with a pounding headache and a sinking feeling in his stomach that he might have just ruined any chance at a friendship he could ever had had with Marcus. And that that might actually bother him.

* * *

Oliver was out for at least the next month, according to the doctor who insisted on a brain scan and shook his head the whole time, mumbling about “football obsessed idiots” because Oliver had the nerve to ask if he’d be able to practice again the next day. He was absolutely forbidden from any form of physical activity more strenuous than walking for the next ten days, and then after that he had to be cleared by a doctor before he could get back into practice. Even then, it would probably be another month before he could actually play again. If he took it very, very carefully, he could finish out the rest of the season.

It wasn’t the best news.

Oliver was antsy when he couldn’t play. He ran nearly every day most days, went to the gym nearly as frequently. The fact that he couldn’t even do _that_ was infuriating. By the next weekend, he was nearly coming out of his skin. He’d been getting headaches all week, and his vision went blurry if he spent too long looking at any one thing, but by Saturday at least mostly his ears had stopped ringing and he wasn’t dizzy. So when he got a text from Charlie about some party they were all going to, he nearly jumped at the chance to get out and do something.

Well. He didn’t quite jump, but that was only because he was still a little worried he might fall over.

Oliver probably shouldn’t be drinking, all things considered, but he was already at the party and halfway through a beer when this thought occurred to him. Deciding he would just stick to beer and aim not to have too much of it, he figured it would be alright.

In apparently typical fashion, the party was taking place on a stretch of somewhat deserted beach, with dozens of students - most of them on at least one of the sports teams - flopped on the sand around a campfire. Oliver was used to drinking in fields, and there was something soothing and surreal listening to the crash of the waves against the sand in the background, somewhat dulled by the music blasting out of a car that was parked a little closer than the rest. 

So far though, Oliver was having a good time. He had found Charlie and Tonks and launched into a heated discussion about strategy. Tonks had some interesting suggestions, and it was entertaining to watch their dynamic together. Charlie had his arm draped over her shoulder and she was leaning her head against his chest  most of the night, but at one point she went off on a nearly twenty minute rather love struck near-rant about a crush she had on one of the professors. “He was never _my_ professor!” She kept insisting. “There’s nothing inappropriate about it! Besides. I graduate in, what, less than six months? Also, it’s so obvious he’s into me-“ which had been rather confusing until Oliver decided he didn’t even want to know the intricacies of that relationship.

And then he scanned his eyes across the party and they landed on a familiar face. Marcus was sitting by the fire, holding a bottle of what looked like whiskey. There was a girl draped half across his lap, her face pressed in close to his neck and one of her hands on his chest. Marcus, though, seemed wholly uninterested. In fact, when he glanced up and away from her his eyes landed on Oliver and stuck that way. They stood on opposite sides of the party and Oliver felt like they were at once only inches away and also miles. Everything else seemed to fall away and he felt completely caught in Marcus’s intense gaze.

He only broke out of it when someone brushed past and knocked into him, and he had to glance at them to make sure everything was alright. By now, most of the people at the party were drunk, and had started to spread out as they coupled off. When Oliver looked back to the fire, Marcus wasn’t there anymore. Finishing off the last swig of his beer, Oliver continued to look around, subconsciously hoping to spot the dark haired man though not sure why. And then, there he was, standing by a patch of trees. He had managed to ditch the girl who had been all over him and he was watching Oliver with a guarded intensity that set his blood thrumming in his veins. When Marcus noticed that Oliver had spotted him, he jerked his head in a _‘come here’_ motion and disappeared into the trees.

Oliver looked around again to make sure no one had noticed and then, taking a breath, he decided there was probably nothing to lose and headed off after the dark haired man. Later, he would blame this on impaired brain functioning.

Oliver was three steps into the trees when a hand grabbed his upper arm and _tugged_ and he found himself with his back against rough bark and Marcus only inches in front of him. “Watch it!” Oliver snapped, though he was well aware his voice was missing most of its usual harshness.

Marcus raised an eyebrow in response, though in the dark of the forest it was barely visible. “What’s your deal, Wood?” He asked. His voice was light and careful, but Oliver could smell the alcohol on his breath and tension seemed to crackle in the air between them.

“What do you mean?” Oliver retorted, trying to wiggle free of Marcus’s grasp. The movement only caused Marcus to grip his hand tighter around Oliver’s arm and use the other hand to press Oliver’s chest back, holding him steady against the tree behind him. Marcus was taller than Oliver, broader and bigger. Oliver was stuck.

“You were staring at me.” Marcus explained.

“No I wasn’t!” Oliver snapped back, hoping the darkness would hide the flush he could feel rising in his cheeks. “And anyways, you had some chick on your lap, you two were being a little obvious, weren’t you?”

Marcus smirked. “Is that _jealousy_ I detect in your voice, Wood?”

“Why would I be jealous?” Oliver finally seemed to remember himself and lifted up one of his hands to push back against Marcus’s chest. Except, Marcus was stronger - Oliver blamed the concussion for this - and all his action managed to accomplish was to give him an excellent feeling of how muscular Flint was, under his thin t-shirt.

Marcus was watching him, but Oliver realized the taller man wasn’t looking at his eyes. No, Marcus’s gaze was focused rather intently on Oliver’s lips, and nervously he darted his tongue out over them. If Marcus seemed to swallow a shudder, Oliver pretended not to notice. It wasn’t like he was entirely sure what he was even noticing to begin with. “Why do I have such terrible taste?” Marcus muttered, and Oliver had a feeling the question was not entirely directed at him. 

And then, Marcus was lifting a hand up and resting it on Oliver’s jaw, and Oliver felt his entire body tense. One of Marcus’s thumbs brushed over Oliver’s lips and he felt a shiver course down his spine, and before he could say or do anything, Marcus leaned forwards. The distance between them, which seemed so minuscule only moments ago, somehow took ages to close, but before Oliver even had the chance to close his eyes, Marcus was pressing their lips together.

It wasn’t exactly what Oliver had imagined - if he ever had imagined kissing another man. Marcus’s skin was slightly prickly, but his lips were warm and smooth and he pressed his entire body against Oliver’s. Marcus was fully in control of the moment, and all Oliver seemed able to do was flutter his eyes closed and melt into Marcus’s touch. 

And then, all too suddenly, Oliver realized what was happening and his mind snapped into place. He pressed _hard_ against Marcus’s chest, and the taller boy broke the kiss as he stumbled backwards. Oliver quickly wiped at his lips with the back of his hand, his eyes wide and his heart pounding so fiercely in his chest he could hear it. “What?” Oliver managed to mumble, shaking his head. “But I thought you…”

Marcus stepped closer again, lifting up a hand, but before he could speak Oliver cut him off.

“I don’t know what the fuck that was, Flint. But I’m not…” He shook his head. “I don’t…” Oliver wanted to _scream_ and throw his hands up in the air. “I’m not fucking _gay_! I don’t want… Don’t… don’t do that again.”

Marcus’s hand dropped and he flinched back as if he had been stung. “Great. You’re not in the closet, you’re fucking in _denial_. Even fucking better.”

“I’m not in _denial_!“ Oliver nearly screamed. “Don’t fucking _say_ that!” He managed to take another few breaths and then he pushed away from the tree and turned to head out of the forest. He had nearly reached the end of it when something tugged inside his chest and he glanced back. Marcus was standing where Oliver had left him, both of his hands over his face and his shoulders taunt. Something plummeted in Oliver’s stomach and his heart felt like it _snapped_ and he wanted to turn around, wrap his arms around the other man, tell him-

He cut his train of thought off sharply and forced himself to look away. He _wasn’t._ He _couldn’t_ be. He had dated girls in high school. Slept with them too. Besides, what would his parents say? Oliver was from a small town, religious and wholesome. All he needed was to meet a pretty girl who liked to cook and pop out a few kids. He just… hadn’t found a connection yet. That didn’t mean he was…

The entire thing was too much to think about, and the alcohol and his fragile brain had started to react in a way that was making his entire skull pound.

Even by the time Oliver had made it home, his blood still felt like it was humming in his veins. He fell asleep that night with his fingers pressed on his lips, unable to wipe away the memory of Marcus’s smooth flat chest pressed against his, and unable to shake the feeling that something about it all had been so, so _right._

* * *

Oliver avoided practice for another week. He was able to start doing moderate physical activity again, after a promising check up visit, but he still was a few weeks out of being back on the field. Instead, he’d been going for slow jogs and lifting weights that he couldn’t drop on himself, as per his doctors orders. For the most part, he had managed to put football at least near the back of his mind and other than running through plays while he tried to fall asleep it wasn’t killing him too much to be forced into a break.

Marcus, on the other hand, was a completely different story. Despite resolutely deciding that he was _not_ gay and _not_ interested and most certainly _not_ waking up aching hard every night with visions of short dark hair and a pale muscular chest, Oliver’s mind wasn’t seeming to get the message. Or his cock, for that matter. He stopped himself twice, waking up to his hand already gliding over his warm length and Marcus’s name caught in the back of his throat.

One day, he didn’t catch it. He was in the shower and couldn’t stop his hand drifting down, but he was focused intently, trying to remember what that girl he dated in highschool - was it Alicia? Or Ally? - had looked like without her shirt on. It was mostly working, until it was too late to stop himself and his brain flashed to warm fall air and tree-bark against his back and stubble brushing over his chin and he came with a whimpered moan and forced himself not to cry afterwards.

Everyone had thoughts like that.

Definitely.

Finally, Oliver couldn’t take it. He hadn’t seen Marcus in over a week, hadn’t been on a football field for more than two, and his entire body felt like it was filled with a buzzing nervous energy he just couldn’t shake. He hadn’t even done it intentionally, but he was walking home from the library and found himself veering off towards the stadium and before he entirely realized what was happening he was in the locker room standing in front of his open locker.

It finally clicked in his head that he couldn’t actually attend practice, but he felt too far in now to turn around so he dug a textbook out of his bag, stashed the rest in his locked, and went to sit in the stands and watch the team practice while he studied.

Oliver managed to get lost in the chapter he was reading, one ear perked up to listen to the plays and make sure he didn’t miss anything important for when he was able to play again. Finally, the team was done and filed past him back into the locker room, a few of them reaching out for sweaty high-fives and pausing to chat for a minute about how glad they were to see him conscious and also sober.

Charlie hung around after they’d all left and the two of them spent a while chatting about what Oliver had missed out on. It turned out that Charlie was a biology major and had applied for an incredibly prestigious internship-of-sorts _wrangling crocodiles_ in Australia, and had just found out that day that he’d been offered a spot. Apparently it was actually an honour, especially since Charlie had been obsessed with the strange animals since he was a child.

Finally, Charlie too headed into the locker room and Oliver finished off his chapter before following after him. By the time he made it to the locker room he was sure it would have been empty - Charlie didn’t usually stick around, preferring to shower back at his house. Which was why, when Oliver had his head stuck in his locker digging through his things and someone cleared their throat behind him, Oliver nearly jumped three feet into the air. He managed to jolt his shoulder into the side of his locker but luckily didn’t hit his head again, and he turned around ready to snap at whoever it was.

Except.

Except that it was Marcus, and there was something in his dark eyes that looked _angry_ and _hurt_. And Oliver didn’t think he liked that.

Unfortunately, any angry retort stuck in his throat and all he was able to say was, “Uh. Hi.”

Marcus rolled his eyes and him and dropped his bag on a bench, taking a few steps closer but stopping when he was three or so feet away from Oliver and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Look.” He began, then glanced around to make sure no one was around. “I’m not hiding anything, but I don’t think a lot of the guys _know_.” Marcus stressed.

Oliver crossed his arms, but kept his mouth shut.

“Anyways. It would be cool if you could just, you know. Keep your mouth shut.”

Something inside of Oliver _snapped_ and he stepped one step closer to Marcus. “Fuck off!” He nearly growled. “You don’t get to… to…. Do _that_ and then come over here like everything’s _fine_ and tell me to keep my mouth shut! If you wanted my mouth _shut_ you shouldn’t have tried to stick your damn tongue into it!”

Marcus crossed his arms and also stepped closer. “What is your problem, Wood? Honestly. You’re so fucked up you don’t realize that this is all you just suppessing your own feelings. It’s like… It’s so stereotypical it would make me want to laugh, if it didn’t piss me off so much.”

Oliver closed his eyes and took four deep breaths before he screamed. “Get the fuck out of my face, Flint.”

“Don’t come running to me when you finally figure yourself out.”

* * *

They had one last game before Christmas break. Oliver was back in the game but unfortunately, the team they were facing was better than they were and they didn’t win. Charlie was devastated, and decided that the only option was for them all to get absolutely trashed and try and forget about what had happened.

Which was how Oliver found himself sitting in the living room of Tonks and Charlie’s house, three beers in and having a conversation about women. Or, rather, Charlie and Tonks were having a conversation about women. Specifically some French exchange student named Fleur who was apparently stunning, and who had been excellent in bed (and very open to their unique set up). They were in the middle of explaining the intricacies of their situation to another one of their teammates when Oliver had a sudden and horrifying realization.

(Marcus said once, when Oliver was finally comfortable enough to retell this story, that it was absolutely not _sudden_ , but that Oliver was just an idiot. He probably wasn’t wrong.)

The realization was that Oliver didn’t actually care at all. Most of the team was leaning in with rapture on their faces, and a healthy measure of awe for Charlie who, it sounded like, often had more than one woman in his bed. Oliver had dedicated about a second of thought to it and promptly dismissed it as not for him. And then he had noticed that Marcus was leaning back with a look of pure disinterest on his face, staring down into the whiskey in his hands. And Oliver remembered rough bark and warm hands and the feeling of his blood thrumming through his veins.

And he realized he _needed_. And he _wanted_.

Oliver couldn’t stop himself from setting down his bottle and manouvering his way off the couch and to the doorway of the room. He glanced back once and couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Marcus but when his stomach started to clench with something like regret he forced himself to turn away.

After a minute of opening doors and trying to find a place that wasn’t already taken, Oliver found himself out on the back porch. It was cool out but still relatively mild for December. He leant over the railing and stared out at the grass and tried to sort out his brain.

Oliver didn’t look up when he heard the back door open, but he glanced over when he felt a shift on the weight of the railing. He was, at least, a little surprised to see Marcus beside him.

“Hi.” Oliver managed to mutter, forcing himself to look away.

Marcus sighed. “I told you to leave me out of it.” He mumbled.

Oliver turned a little. “Pretty sure you followed me out here.”

Marcus groaned and turned on his heel, and his hand was on the door handle when Oliver finally reacted and reached out, grabbing Marcus’s arm and pulling him towards him. “Wait, just-” Oliver’s words stuck in his throat and he had to swallow and shake his head. The beer was fuzzing the edges of his brain but everything about this felt important and necessary and like it needed to happen _now_. “Just. Look. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what’s going on with me and I think I fucked a lot of stuff up but-”

It was then Oliver realized Marcus was smirking. And Oliver didn’t want to hear “ _I told you so_ ” and he did the only thing he could think of that would shut Marcus up.

He lifted up his free hand to fist in the thin green sweater that was bringing out flecks of gold in Marcus’s dark eyes eyes and he _pulled._ When their bodies crashed into each other, Oliver pressed his lips against Marcus’s and his entire body felt like it had finally come alive. He hadn’t realized what he had been missing, between this kiss and the last. Hadn’t realized that he had been starving until he tasted Marcus’s whiskey tinged tongue.

Marcus seemed to melt against him and then, far too quickly, Marcus was pulling back. “Oliver,” he mumbled. His voice was low and husky and Oliver couldn’t help but shiver in response to it. “You shouldn’t kiss me like that unless you mean it.” And then he caught Oliver’s eyes and Oliver wanted to say he didn’t, wanted to let go and run and pretend this never happened, to settle back down into his happy comfortable mostly-heterosexual life.

He couldn’t.

Oliver glanced down at Marcus’s lips and then back up into his eyes, and swallowed. “Kiss me,” he whispered. His voice was hoarser than he intended it to be. Marcus still looked torn and Oliver licked his own lips, and then closed his eyes. “Please.”

Marcus made a noise low in his throat that sounded like a growl and then pressed his lips against Oliver’s, and Oliver knew in that moment that no matter what he tried he never could have run away from this. He never really wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading part one!!
> 
> This is my """drabble""" sprung from a shower thought I had about how Oliver could totally be a good old country boy and that would be a hilarious dynamic with Marcus as some rich city kid. Anyways, as you can probably tell, we have far surpassed drabble length. Thanks for sticking with me even when my brain takes things and RUNS!
> 
> Some quick things:
> 
> I know literally nothing about football, and very little about college sports. So forgive any errors there - that is the result of me being Canadian and also not caring enough to spend hours trying to actually learn about the game.
> 
> This is gonna be a three part story. Part two is basically done, and I'd say I'm a third of the way into part three? No specific update schedule on this one - I'm posting part one now as kind of an apology because I was going to drunk blog last night and then I got too drunk so no blogging happened. I'll probably post part two sometime in the middle of this week and then part three next weekend as long as I get it finished up by then, so you won't have too long a wait!
> 
> If you missed it from the tags, blanket warning for some homophobia next part, as well as implied gang activities. The smut is mostly vague and implied rather than explicit. The nice thing at least is that I think this part could stand pretty solidly on its own so if you don't want to read any further you don't have to!
> 
> I also made a whole playlist of country music, so if you're interested in the songs that are on that let me know and I'll write up a list!
> 
> Also, if there's anything you want to see in the next parts drop me a comment! If I can't fit it in, who knows... maybe it'll inspire me for the next story. ;)
> 
> Make sure to subscribe or follow me on tumblr (same username as here!) so you don't miss it when part 2 comes out!


	2. back to the basics of you and me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come a little closer baby, I feel like strippin' it down  
> back to the basics of you and me and what makes the world go round  
> every inch of you against my skin, I wanna be stronger than we've ever been  
> so come a little closer baby - I feel like strippin' it down  
> \- come a little closer, dierks bentley
> 
> (quick content warning for homophobia, mature content, & some implied violence!)

Oliver and Marcus fell into a comfortable routine with each other. Oliver was still slowly trying to process how different things were than he expected, the fact that Marcus was a _he_ , the fact that that made him… something, at least, that wasn’t straight. But Marcus was patient, at least with this, and Oliver figured if he was going to go through a crisis like this at least it was nice that he got to do it with someone who was helpful about the whole thing. They kept their slowly forming relationship more or less quiet from the rest of the team, but Charlie noticed and Oliver got a talking to about good etiquette and lube brands and he was sure his face had never been redder in his entire life. By the end of Oliver’s first year, they were officially a couple. It wasn’t rare to find them sitting far too close in the study hall, or teasing each other about how they took their coffee, or “wrestling” on the grounds when the weather was nice.

Or getting into massive screaming arguments about the smallest things. One of their first fights was about Oliver’s taste in music. Marcus had snapped one day about Oliver constantly listening to country music and never opening his horizons to anything else. Oliver retorted something about Marcus’s prejudice and the fact that he thought everyone from the country was stupid.

Which had turned into a simmering argument that lasted for days. They had finally reconciled only when one of Marcus’s friends, Terry, had marched over to Oliver and smacked him upside the head and told him that Marcus was miserable and whiny and that they couldn’t deal with it anymore. And Oliver maintained that it wasn’t _his_ job, but he maybe missed cuddling up to Marcus after a long day of class, and waking up in the other man’s bed, seeing his sleep tousled hair and marveling over how peaceful he looked in the early morning light.

It didn’t hurt that the sex was pretty damn good too. The first few times had been awkward and clumsy, Marcus trying to walk Oliver through the process. Again, it never ceased to amaze Oliver how someone with as short a fuse as Marcus seemingly had all the time in the world for Oliver coming to terms with his sexuality. Oliver learned that Marcus gave incredible blow jobs, and that even though he had been against it at first there was nothing better than the feeling of Marcus fucking him into his mattress, clutching at his hair and whispering dirty words in his ear. Marcus seemed to come alive when he was inside of Oliver, and Oliver had started to _crave_ it. Marcus was also willing to try just about anything once, and had been more than a little pleased that Oliver’s kinks lined up so well with his. Oliver liked it rough, and Marcus was always up for a challenge, after all. And Oliver, well, the fact that he was so good at knots had not been lost on Marcus at all.

Marcus was also a bit of an exhibitionist, and for the most part the thrill of it all was good enough for Oliver - he had always been an adrenaline junkie. Unfortunately, Oliver had learned the hard way that the locker room showers were _not_ an appropriate place no matter what Marcus said, if only because when Tonks and Charlie had stumbled in and managed to untangle themselves from each other, Tonks seemed a little _too_ interested in sticking around to watch the action.

By the end of Oliver’s second year, they were more than a little madly in love with each other. Percy, Charlie’s younger brother who had become one of Oliver’s best friends since Charlie moved away, had burst out laughing when Oliver confessed these feelings to him. Percy was one of those people who was too logical for his own good. It was so obvious from the way they looked at each other, the fact that Oliver had Marcus’s take out order memorized for at least four different types of food, and a hundred other things that, according to Percy, “you could spot this love from space.” Marcus wasn’t particularly good at speaking these feelings, and Oliver said it too much - dropping an ‘I love you’ over the smallest things. Marcus was more a man of grand gestures and secret smiles, and one day he had sat down and told Oliver that they should move in together.

Oliver had only panicked a little bit, and then they set out on their search.

More arguments had followed, of course. Marcus had big dreams, large windows and spacious apartments, breakfast bars and mud rooms. Oliver had big dreams too, of not going absolutely broke by the time he graduated. Oliver picked most of the apartments they went to see, and Marcus had a complaint at every place. ‘This one’s too crowded’, ‘this one’s too dirty.’ And, ‘did you even _look_ at the bathroom, Wood? There was _mold_ in the shower!’

Finally Oliver had snapped and told Marcus that if he was so particular he could just find their place by himself. But Oliver maintained that he was firm on his budget and wished Marcus _good fucking luck_ finding somewhere that met both of their needs.

Two weeks later, Marcus announced that he had found the perfect place, and Oliver had set off after him, readying his own complaints just to make it difficult for his boyfriend.

Unfortunately, the place Marcus found _was_ perfect.

* * *

“Marcus,” Oliver began, as he looked around, opened closets and peeked under the sinks. “This is actually… really nice.” It was small, but didn’t feel cramped because of the large windows and slightly higher ceilings - it was in an old building that still seemed relatively intact. The kitchen had space enough for Oliver to cook whatever he wanted, and there was a breakfast bar separating the room from the living space. The bedroom had room enough for a queen sized bed (Oliver sprawled in his sleep) and the building had its own gym on the ground floor.

“There’s no way this is in our price range.”

Marcus was being a little suspicious, looking down at his fingernails. “It is.”

“Flint. I told you. I can’t afford to pay more than-”

“I know.” And then Marcus was in front of him, grabbing his hands and looking deep into Oliver’s blue eyes. “That’s why I already bought it. Signed the paperwork last week, picked up the key yesterday, had all the furniture delivered this morning.” His tone was confident and cocky, but Oliver had grown adept at reading his usually stoic partner and could see the vulnerability and uncertainty in his eyes and his tense shoulders.

Oliver’s jaw dropped and he had to spend a moment thinking about this before it all settled in. “Marcus!” He admonished. “I… but you… You can’t just buy an apartment just like that!”

“Well, probably not another one, no.”

Oliver nearly screamed but he forced himself to hold it back. Marcus did things like this. Bought Christmas gifts above the limit they had decided on, paid if the restaurant they went too was too expensive. Brushed it off usually with a line about old money and _someone_ needing to spend it. But this, this was too big. Too important.

“I started working for my dad.” Marcus jumped in, before Oliver could say anything. “Just in my free time.”

“What are you doing for him?” Oliver asked, still holding both of Marcus’s hands in his and wondering where this was all going.

“Just… Stuff for the family business. Whatever they need help with. I might have to go out there every once in awhile, but mostly I can do it from here. So I’ve saved up a bit of my own money too, and I’ll keep making money for if we need it. But this was kind of a gift from my dad, enough money to buy a place, to get comfortable. Like a… a signing bonus.” Marcus was rambling a bit, which was unlike him. But it probably wasn’t worth it to press. After all, when most kids started working for their parents it was just odd jobs, filing and organizing and data entry. Or at least, that’s what Percy had said. Oliver had been mucking out stalls and driving tractors since he was old enough to reach the controls and strong enough to lift a shovel, but he figured that his experience was a little different than Marcus’s.

“Come on, it’s a good thing!” Marcus insisted. “I’m just… I just want us to be happy, Wood. And live somewhere that isn’t infested with bugs or some shit. I just want to give you the best.”

How could you be mad about something like that?

* * *

For the most part, Oliver loved living with Marcus. They went for runs together most mornings, coaxing each other out of bed even despite the early hour and often crummy weather. (Part of what worked so well for them, Oliver had decided, was that they were both driven and determined - especially when it came to sports - and they could take their competitiveness out on each other, pushing one another to go faster and further and want _more_.) They woke up early to have enough time to get in an hour long run and the shower sex that almost always followed. They ate take out on the floor when Oliver was too busy to cook, or when Marcus decided he wanted to cook and burned everything beyond the point of edible. Usually, they went to bed early - Marcus would fall asleep in front of the TV most nights before it was even ten o’clock, often with diagrams and write ups of his latest plays for the football team, which he was now the captain of, spread across his legs and Oliver’s too.

Marcus left on ‘business trips’ once a month or so. He was usually never gone for more than a weekend, occasionally three days. A few times he had come home and gone immediately for their liquor cupboard, not saying more than a few words to Oliver until he had downed half a bottle of whatever was closest to his hand.

Oliver, once, had tried to ask what was wrong, why he was so upset. Marcus, who was guarded at the best of times, shuttered up completely. His entire expression had gone blank and he’d sat, silently staring at the coffee table, for nearly ten minutes. Oliver was about to say that it was fine, when Marcus finally spoke. He said something about family politics, about a group of upperclass New York families that were often referred to as the ‘sacred twenty eight’. There’d been a falling out a few years before, something to do with racism or old money or maybe it was just a marriage or two to the ‘wrong person’. Mostly, it was just exhausting being around all of them and some of the more outdated ideals. Marcus’s family had stayed in the light, so to speak, though occasionally conflicts came up between the groups. Business conflicts, he had added hastily, and Oliver realized that his boyfriend was more drunk than he had let on. Marcus seemed to realize this too, and didn’t say another word for the rest of the night.

For the most part, though, Oliver couldn’t remember a time when he had been happier. He had good friends at school, a group of girls from the women’s soccer team and two more of Charlie’s little brothers (a pair of redheaded twins named Fred and George). In fact, the Weasley’s had integrated him so much into their family that Mrs. Weasley (‘ _call me Molly, dear!_ ’) had sent along two hand knit sweaters for Christmas, one with a large O and the other a large M in contrasting colours on their fronts. Oliver had hid in the bathroom and cried for nearly twenty minutes over the fact that he was so lucky, that someone accepted them both so unconditionally. He was building himself a family out of Marcus and a strange bundle of redheads and it was mostly perfect.

* * *

Except for the fact that, despite dating Marcus for two years, Oliver had yet to come out to his family. Marcus had said it was easy - if his father could come to terms with it so could Oliver’s. But, Oliver’s family wasn’t like Marcus’s (a fact he was reminded of when his relatives started making fun of him over the phone for losing his accent, or pressuring him to come home for the summer even though he’d found a job teaching at a sports camp where he was, dropping hints about finding a good Mrs who would settle down - one with child birthing hips preferably). And Oliver’s family were traditional in a way that Marcus’s weren’t. They believed in the “institution of marriage” and “family values” and for the most part didn’t do too well with change.

Marcus graduated at the end of that year and Oliver attended the ceremony, sat next to his father in the audience. Cadmus Flint bore a strong resemblance to Marcus, and shook Oliver’s hand with a fierceness that anyone who knew Marcus would expect. Marcus had almost not made it, nearly failing a math course he had to take to complete his degree, and it was only because Oliver spent hours with him going over formulas that he had passed at all, and Cadmus couldn’t be more pleased with Oliver for his role in Marcus’s passing. Oliver had a feeling that he should probably be scared of the man, but he had learned years ago how not to be scared of Marcus, and it was easy enough to apply that knowledge across the generational gap.

In fact, it was the graduation ceremony and the dinner that Cadmus had treated them to that finally dislodged something inside of Oliver. As he lay next to Marcus that night, Marcus curled into Oliver’s side with his head resting over Oliver’s heart, Oliver made a decision.

“I want to introduce you to my family.”

Marcus sat up slightly and turned so that he could examine Oliver’s face. “Oliver, you don’t have to-”

“Yeah. Yeah I do. I’m not ashamed of you and… and maybe they’ll like you. Maybe it’ll all work out.” Oliver’s voice cracked in the middle of the sentence, and Marcus frowned at the obvious indication that his boyfriend didn’t believe what he was saying.

“Wood. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I don’t want you to throw your life away for me. If you want them to think you’re straight and just not settled down yet, I understand.”

“No.” Oliver said again, shaking his head. “I want… to show you where I grew up. I want to introduce you to my parents. I want… I want to prove that I’m not hiding you and I never will.”

“You’re an idiot.” Marcus mumbled affectionately, lying his head back down on Oliver’s chest and tugging himself a little closer. “Love you.”

* * *

Oliver and Marcus headed out the next morning. Marcus was the one with the car, and typically the one who drove - something about control and recklessness and ‘I actually want to arrive _alive_ , babe’. But the drive to Oliver’s parents place was long, and they took turns. At a stop sign off a busy highway onto a country road, Oliver glanced over at his sleeping boyfriend and decided that yes, this was the right decision. No matter what, he would have Marcus, and no matter what, he was done being afraid.

When they finally arrived, Oliver headed for the front door and Marcus fell behind as he grabbed their bags from the car. Oliver knocked hesitantly and the door swung open to reveal a pretty older woman, with pin curled blonde hair and a floral apron.

“Oliver!” She nearly shouted, and threw her arms around him. “Oh, my baby! My boy! Are you really here?”

“Hi Ma,” he murmured into her hair, letting himself return the hug and trying not to think of what she was going to say, what she was going to do. “Missed you.”

“Are you coming to stay? Oh-” She pulled back from the hug and peeked around Oliver’s tall frame as she caught sight of Marcus, a duffle bag in one hand and a backpack over the other shoulder. “Oh! You brought one of your friends home, how lovely. Oliver, go help him with his things, the poor man!”

Oliver couldn’t help but flush as he smiled and he turned around to do just that. A minute later they were both standing in front of the woman and suddenly the reality was crashing down. “Marcus, this is my mom, Helen. Ma, this is Marcus. My…” He trailed off and glanced over and Marcus looked so beautiful in the evening dusk and everything inside of him stuttered to a halt. “My friend. He’s never really been out to the country so I thought we could… come by for a few days, I could show him around?”

Marcus smiled and extended a hand to Helen, catching hers and then pressing a kiss to the back of her hand in an utterly charming gesture. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you, Mrs. Wood. I’ve heard wonderful things.”

Helen blushed and fanned at her face with the other hand. “Well. It’s wonderful to meet such a kind young man with such lovely manners. Come in boys, come in. Ollie, why don’t you go put your bags in your room? Marcus, I’m sorry, we don’t really have a guest room anymore - turned it into workshop for Ollie’s father. I can bring up the cot and you can bunk in with Oliver, is that alright? I don’t think he snores anymore - before had had his braces he-”

“Ma!” Oliver interjected, still flushed from earlier. “That’s fine, we don’t care. We share at-” He froze, swallowed, looked at Marcus for confirmation.

Marcus, bless him, picked up smoothly. “We were on the football team together, Mrs. Wood. Sometimes we travelled for tournaments, shared a hotel room. I’m perfectly fine sleeping wherever is most convenient.” Marcus had fallen easily into his high society manners, and Oliver, for once, was grateful for his boyfriend’s proper upbringing. Helen chatted to them excitedly as she led them to the room, and then left them to get settled.

Oliver dropped down onto the bed as Marcus closed the door behind him. When Marcus turned back around, Oliver had his head in his hands and was clearly trying not to cry. “Babe,” Marcus mumbled, crossing the room and sitting down next to Oliver, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “Don’t cry, please. I told you I don’t care. I don’t need them to know, I don’t need to show the world. I’ve got you, that’s all that matters.”

Oliver shook his head but leaned into Marcus’s touch anyways. “I… I just panicked, Marcus. I thought of the look on her face and about how happy she was to see me and I just…”

“I’m telling you again you don’t have to do this. But I also know you, and I know you have a stupid sense of bravery and I know you’re probably going to do it anyways. But just. No rush, okay? Take all the time you need. Even if you shout it from the window when we drive away from here.”

That drew a short, watery laugh from Oliver and he nodded against Marcus’s chest. “Yeah. Okay.”

* * *

Oliver spent the next day showing Marcus around the place he grew up. They had a few hundred acres and went for their morning run through a winding trail that led through the property to a small lake. Oliver, hot and sweaty and covered in dust, took one look at Marcus and started pulling off his clothes.

“Last one in’s a rotten egg!” He teased, and then he tugged off his boxers as well and took a running leap into the water. Marcus hung back for a minute to watch his boyfriend running naked and screaming, and then pulled off his own clothes as fast as humanly possible and dove in smoothly after him.

It might not have been sex in their big shower, warm water coursing over their sore muscles and washing away the sweat of hard work and determination, but Oliver had a feeling he wouldn’t ever forget the way he felt that morning, pushed up against a rock with Marcus pressing into him, cool water splashing against their bodies and sand beneath his toes.

Marcus, apparently, was afraid of horses. Unfortunately, Oliver only learned this when they walked into the stable and Marcus froze immediately, colour draining from his face and a look of abject horror in his eyes. No matter how hard Oliver tried, his ‘too tough for everything’ boyfriend would not take one step further and eventually Oliver gave up on his idea of a romantic horse ride around the farm. Luckily, he would now have something to tease Marcus with for the next six months at least.

They spent the rest of the day mostly exploring on foot. Oliver showed Marcus the chicken coop, the greenhouses, the fields. They ate sandwiches that Helen left out and spent as little time as possible in the farm house. Marcus was out of his element for most of the day, jeans too tight and shoes too shiny. Oliver loved getting to watch him start to unravel a bit at the seams, loosen up and just enjoy their time in the sun.

Dinner came too quickly. Oliver and Marcus finally made it back inside and Helen ushered them into their seats. Oliver’s father, Al, made his first appearance since Oliver had arrived home. He went to bed early and woke up early, and so they had missed each other so far. When he arrived at the table, Oliver stood and let himself be pulled into a gruff hug.

“Dad, this is Marcus. Marcus, my dad Alban. He prefers Al.”

Marcus reached out and shook the man’s hand firmly, nodding at him in greeting. Alban, who was a quiet man, seemed pleased and took his seat at the head of the table, and after a quick prayer (during which Marcus and Oliver locked eyes and tried not to snicker conspiratorially) the group began to eat.

Halfway through the meal, Oliver decided it was time. His stomach was in knots and he felt nearly sick, and he needed to tell them. He needed to tell them now. He glanced at Marcus one last time for reassurance, and Marcus - who had always been good at reading Oliver like a book - nodded.

“Mom. Dad. I have, uh. Something to tell you both.”

Helen glanced up immediately, and Al set down his fork.

“I…” Oliver’s voice died in his throat and he swallowed back the pain he was feeling. Under the small table, he felt Marcus rest his hand on his knee, and he took a second to draw strength from the gesture. “Marcus is my… Marcus and I are…” Oliver closed his eyes and reopened them, steeling his shoulders. “I’m in love with Marcus. He’s my boyfriend, and has been for two years. We live together.”

Helen’s jaw dropped open, and Al’s seemed to clench further shut.

“Oliver?” She asked, carefully, sparing a glance over at Marcus who had set his face into a look of determination. “Where is this coming from? You… you had girlfriends, before. You… This is just a _phase_!”

Oliver shook his head. “No, ma. It’s not. It’s been two years. It’s not a phase. He’s my boyfriend, and we’re in love. And it’s real.”

“No no no, Oliver. You just don’t know… you’re just confused. You haven’t met the right girl, is all. You just need to meet someone nice.” She glanced back at Marcus and had the decency to flush. “Not that you’re not…” Helen trailed off, and winced as the realization set in that if Marcus was dating Oliver he must be gay as well, before turning back to Oliver. “But my Ollie isn’t, isn’t…”

“My son isn’t a fucking _queer_.” Alban all but spat, some of the only words he’d said during the entire meal. Oliver lifted his head slowly and Marcus snapped his around. The man had his hands in fists resting on the table, and his brow was furrowed in anger. “Oliver. Can’t you see you’re upsetting your mother? Bringing this… this nonsense into my house. I won’t stand for it.”

Oliver rubbed one of his hands over his face, forcing himself not to scream. It was exactly what he was worried about. “Well.” He said, his voice clipped and tone flat. “You don’t have to stand for anything, dad. I was hoping… Hoping both of you would take this better. Would understand that for the first time in a long time I’m finally happy. Marcus makes me _happy_ , mom.” He turned his head back to his mother, hoping she would see reason. Hoping she would get it. “Can’t you see that, ma? That I’m happy?”

Helen had crossed her arms. “No. It’s _not_ _right_ Oliver! It’s a sin! It’s… what would Jesus say, Ollie?”

“I don’t give a _damn_ what Jesus says, mom!” Oliver bit out, clenching his own hands into fists.

“Watch your tongue, boy.” Alban ground out through gritted teeth.

Oliver could feel the anger rising up, pushing away the traces of sadness and filling the space with a cold fury. “I am your _son_. I am your son, and I love you, but I won’t… I don’t have to put up with this. Marcus,” He glanced over at his boyfriend and felt himself start to deflate. Marcus was sitting tall and proud, his shoulders square and his face set in a hard expression. “Marcus, can we leave, please?”

Marcus looked over at Oliver and managed a small, guarded smile. He was always good about falling into whatever role Oliver needed, even if Oliver didn’t always realize it. “Of course, baby. Why don’t you go get our stuff?”

“Oliver, don’t-” Helen leaned forward as Oliver stood, but he forced himself not to look back at her and instead headed back into the hallway.

Marcus cleared his throat and looked between the two Woods. “Look.” He said, voice now thick with emotions and anger. “I don’t know what your fucking deal is, but I refuse to let you hurt him like that. Do you know how long he’s agonized about whether or not to tell you? About what your reactions were going to be?”

Alban had opened his mouth and looked like he was about to speak but Marcus lifted his hand instead. “No. You don’t get to talk now. I told him he didn’t have to tell you. It’s not like you would have noticed anytime soon - haven’t even fucking _visited_ him… But he has this fucking honourable sense of dignity, he thought you were worth knowing the truth. But now, we’re leaving.”

“Oliver doesn’t have to leave.” Helen said, almost pleading now.

“If I’m leaving, he’s coming with me. And it doesn’t sound like you’re interested in having me around, does it?” Marcus stood as he spoke, tossed his napkin on the table as he waited for an answer. When neither responded, he shook his head. “This is part of your son’s life now. I am part of your son’s life now and as long as he’ll have me I’m not going anywhere. So either work through your own shit and call your son and tell him you love him no matter what, or leave us the fuck alone.”

Alban leaned forward now, lifting a finger at Marcus. “Get the fuck out of my house.” He growled.

Oliver had appeared in the dining room sometime during Marcus’s speech. His eyes were red but he wasn’t crying anymore, and his shoulders were set with determination. He crossed the room and took Marcus’s hand and they walked to the front door in silence. Halfway out, Oliver turned his head back, taking in the sadness in his mother’s face and the anger still coursing off his father. “I still love both of you.” He said, voice so quiet he wasn’t sure if they’d hear. “But you need to love me for me. And this is who I am.”

Alban looked up again and met Oliver’s eye. Oliver held his breath for only a second, hoping, maybe-

“Go.” Alban said, and Oliver swallowed his tears as he closed the door behind them.

* * *

Oliver cried for most of the car ride back. At least, he cried until he fell asleep. When he woke up, Marcus was pulling off the side of the road into a motel parking lot.

“No, don’t want to stop.” Oliver mumbled, as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Marcus sighed. “I know you wanna get home, Ollie. I can’t drive anymore…”

“I’ll drive.”

Marcus shook his head, reaching a hand over to catch Oliver’s hand. “No. You’ve been through a lot today. We should really stop.”

Oliver sat up and tried to blink through the tiredness but he couldn’t seem to shake it. Any other day, he would have fought back, pushed Marcus back like he always did. Today, he didn’t have the strength, and it was nice to just fall apart a little and let Marcus pick up the pieces. “Yeah.” He mumbled, looking down at his lap. “Yeah, okay.”

They fell asleep curled up together, Marcus’s body wrapped around Oliver’s for once. And even though it felt like he had lost part of his family today, he also couldn’t imagine being anywhere but here, with Marcus’s arms around him. As long as he had Marcus, everything would be fine. Everything had to be fine.

* * *

Summer carried on without much change. Oliver decided he just didn’t want to talk about what his family had said, and Marcus didn’t want to push him into it. They spent most of the summer together, Marcus working from home and Oliver still coaching football at a sports day camp. During the evenings, they went for cool dusk-time runs, swam in the ocean, drank as much sangria as they could handle, and generally tried to forget that there was anything else going on except for each other.

Everything was going better than Oliver ever hoped it could, until Marcus mentioned that he had to go home one weekend.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Oliver asked, without even thinking. He had wrapped up at camp just the day before and had nothing to do, so a trip to New York sounded like it could be a good idea.

Marcus hadn’t even looked up from packing, and he barely let Oliver finish the sentence before he snapped out a quick “no.”

Oliver’s brow creased into a frown. “You know… you’ve never once invited me up there with you.” He could tell he was pushing at an area that he probably should leave alone, but it was a thought that crossed his mind every once in awhile.

Marcus finally glanced up from his bag, frowning at his boyfriend. “You’d be bored.”

“In New York City?” Oliver responded, nearly incredulous.

“Yes. Besides, I’m just going to be working the whole weekend anyways.”

Oliver sighed and ran a hand through his hair, longer now than it usually was since he hadn’t kept on top of cutting it over the summer months. “Marcus. I never bug you about this shit, you know that. But it’s kind of weird that you still have never told me exactly what you even do.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t even go there.” He responded, and Oliver could hear the ice in his voice.

Oliver had never been one to back down from a fight, especially with Marcus. “Why not?”

“We’re not having this conversation.”

“You don’t get to fucking _choose_ what conversations we have, Marcus!”

Marcus zipped his bag closed rather aggressively and hefted it up over his shoulder. “Babe. I’m not getting into this with you right now. I have to go to the airport.” He closed the distance between them and leaned in for a kiss and Oliver, feeling petulant, turned his head at the last moment so that Marcus’s lips brushed over his cheek. Marcus let out a sigh and moved around his boyfriend, headed for the front door of their apartment. “I’ll be back Sunday night - around eight. Just…” He paused for a minute. “I love you.” And then he was gone.

* * *

Marcus was not back Sunday night.

Eight o’clock came and went and Oliver forced himself not to worry. He was still a little frustrated at the other man, but he wasn’t angry anymore. He wanted to apologize for being such a dick and fall asleep curled around Marcus and forget about the whole thing. It didn’t really matter anyways.

His flight was probably just delayed.

By ten, Oliver was unable to stop the worry. He started googling and found out that the flight from New York had gotten in six minutes _early_.

Which meant that either Marcus had gone somewhere else after the flight, or he hadn’t been on it at all. And he wouldn’t answer his phone.

Oliver was still sitting on the couch when the sun came up the next morning. He had fallen asleep briefly but all of it had been wracked with nightmares. He wasn’t sure _why_ he was so convinced that something was wrong, but it was unlike Marcus not to call or text him if something held him up. Unlike Marcus not to be home when he said he would be home. Something about the entire situation sat so uncomfortably in his stomach, and Oliver couldn’t stop replaying their fight in his mind. He hadn’t said I love you back. He’d let Marcus leave angry, and the handful of texts they sent over the weekend weren’t enough. They were simple - “did you make it?” “yeah. love you.” “how’s your day?” “fine, you?” “fine.” “love you.” “see you soon.” And then nothing.

Oliver must have passed out again at some point, because when he woke up again the clock on their cable box was flashing one pm, and there was a noise that sounded like a key in the lock.

When this clicked with his brain, Oliver sat straight up and turned towards the door. He imagined he looked like a complete mess, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Finally, the door swung open and Marcus stood on the other side. He looked, if possible, even more exhausted than Oliver. He had bags under his eyes and his hair was hanging limply over his forehead, and he seemed to be almost swaying on the spot.

“Marcus!” Oliver blurted out, and was up and at the door a moment later, catching his boyfriend in his arms and helping him inside. “What’s wrong? What happened? Where _were_ you? Are you okay?” Once the door was closed, Oliver started running his hands over Marcus’s body, touching at his head and his chest and checking for damage.

“M’fine.” Marcus mumbled, words slurred - though Oliver couldn’t tell why. “Jus… tired. Long weekend.”

“Marcus, where were you? You weren’t on the flight… you didn’t call me…”

Marcus brushed off Oliver’s concern with a shrug and tried to step around his boyfriend. “Was just… Family stuff. Couldn’t… get out of it. Didn’t have time to text you.” Oliver wanted to _yell_ that that wasn’t an acceptable reason but then Marcus swayed dangerously to the side and he had to jump forward to catch his boyfriend again.

“Marcus, what’s wrong?” He pressed again, and Marcus shook his head very slowly.

“Need to go lie down.” He mumbled, and Oliver sighed but helped him to their bedroom anyways.

Oliver pushed the door open and helped Marcus down onto the bed and then looked around, trying to figure out what he could do to fix this. “Why don’t you take off your shirt? You shouldn’t be wearing long sleeves, it’s like… seventy degrees outside.” Oliver reached out to grab the bottom of Marcus’s shirt but Marcus reacted far more quickly than he was expecting, grabbing Oliver’s hand to stop him.

“No. Leave it.”

Oliver was, once again, immediately suspicious. He climbed onto the bed beside Marcus and looked down at the other. “This isn’t fair.” He said, plainly. “You don’t get to just… just disappear and not come home on time and then show up like _this_ and not tell me what’s wrong. I don’t care, Marcus, whatever your fucking pride is preventing you from saying. I don’t care. I’m… I’m your boyfriend, I live with you. I deserve to know what happened.”

Marcus’s eyes were shut but he obviously heard Oliver. “It’s… nothing, Ol. Please.” His voice was low and almost desperate and Oliver couldn’t help himself from reaching down to wrap his fingers around Marcus’s forearm, hoping to prompt the other to look at him.

Instead, Marcus hissed out a groan of pain and tugged his arm back, cradling it protectively across his chest.

Oliver’s frown deepened and he reached forward again. They fought like this for a minute, Marcus trying to keep his arm away from Oliver but also not to press it too hard against himself, Oliver trying to catch Marcus’s hand. Finally, Oliver managed to wrap his fingers around Marcus’s palm and tug. Usually Marcus was the stronger of the two, but he was obviously both exhausted and in pain and thus couldn’t fight as much as usual.

Reaching out his other hand, Oliver tentatively pushed up Marcus’s sleeve to reveal a white bandage wrapped around his forearm, a pink tinge from blood that had started to seep through. “What the fuck?” He whispered, still not entirely sure what he was looking at.

Slowly, Marcus manoeuvred so he was sitting up and rested his forehead against Oliver’s shoulder. “’M so sorry, baby.” He murmured, and Oliver sighed.

“You can’t do this to me anymore, Marcus. You have to tell me the truth. I deserve the truth.”

Marcus nodded. “Yeah.” He agreed, but he clearly wasn’t happy. He took a few deep breaths, trying to centre himself. “Just. I did this to protect us. To protect you, okay? You have to… to understand. But I’m safe now, and you’re safe now. No one knows… about you. You’re safe, okay?”

Oliver shook his head, reaching up to comb Marcus’s hair away from his face. “You need to start at the beginning.” He pushed, and Marcus shook his head.

“No beginning, really. My dad… The family business… I guess it’s kind of… Not entirely legal?” He hedged, and shifted a little but didn’t look up. “But s’okay. I fixed it, Ollie. Everything’s gonna be fine now.”

Oliver couldn’t stop himself for reaching down and tugging at the bandage, pulling it away. He nearly choked when he revealed puffy skin, dark red and angry, clearly burned - _branded_ \- in the shape of a skull and a snake. “What the fuck?” He mumbled, finally pulling back, pushing at Marcus’s shoulder and forcing the other to look at him. “What the _fuck_?”

Marcus shook his head. “Bit tacky, yeah.” He mumbled through what Oliver was now identifying as pain and hurt, with a forced sort of laugh. “Not as bad as it looks. It’ll jus’ scar a bit. But now I’m safe.”

“That doesn’t look very _safe_ , Marcus.” Oliver nearly spat back.

Marcus had the decency to flinch. “Yeah, well. It’s… not the country. But, I mean it. This was the best way to stay safe. Things are… Not good, at home. But now I’m safe, we’re safe. I promise, Ollie. I promise everything’s going to be okay.”

Oliver swallowed down the pain and hurt and fear that was bubbling up in his throat. He knew. He knew it wasn’t true. How could someone be safe when they had a skull branded into their arm? But. But something in him was pushing him to wrap his arms around Marcus. He had never quite seen the man look so _broken_ before and it was throwing him off. And it was selfish, too. It had been a tough weekend and he just didn’t want to deal with it anymore. He wanted to curl up next to Marcus and sleep and go back to the way things were the week before.

So he did something he probably shouldn’t have. He swallowed, and nodded, and lay down in their bed, tugging Marcus after him. “Okay.” He said, voice not as strong as he had hoped. “Okay. I trust you.” He paused, looked down at the top of Marcus’s head which was now resting on his chest. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Olls.” Marcus mumbled.

Marcus was more often on top, when they had sex. He relished in the feeling of pressing Oliver into the mattress, and Oliver craved having Marcus fill him up. But sometimes, Marcus needed to let go, to relax and to _feel_ rather than planning out every interaction, to let Oliver take control and take the lead. Sometimes, Marcus needed Oliver to take responsibility, to fix things. And even though they were both exhausted and Marcus probably wasn’t in any shape for much other than sleep, when he looked up into Oliver’s eyes and bit his bottom lip and _asked_ , Oliver couldn’t say no.

Even as Oliver pushed inside of him and Marcus shuddered beneath him, Oliver knew that he had made the wrong decision. But Oliver also knew that he was too in love with Marcus to ever choose anything different. That they were too tied together, too caught up in each other to recognize that maybe they weren’t making the right choices. Too lost in what they wanted that neither of them noticed they were running down a broken track. Oliver, as he thrust into his boyfriend slowly and nearly torturously, had a fleeting thought that he hoped when the explosion hit, they wouldn’t be too close to the centre of it. He knew, as Marcus kissed the soft skin on his neck, that they probably wouldn’t be that lucky.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to each and every one of you for reading my strange story and for leaving your comments / kudos! This was my more domestic-y Flintwood chapter and I loved it. The parts kind of break down into "discovering", "fluffy domestics" and "shit hits the fan". So... Enjoy this one while it lasts! And feel free to let me know your thoughts down below or on tumblr (I'm @hexmionegranger).
> 
> Part three should hopefully be out this weekend in honour of me being done with my second year and 6 years of university!
> 
> Another huge thanks to @nymphadoraholtzmann for being my wonderful beta & support system, AND making me a beautiful graphic inspired by this story which you can find here (https://nymphadoraholtzmann.tumblr.com/post/154445375365/marcus-flint-x-oliver-wood-moodboard-muggle)!!
> 
> LASTLY! If you like Dramione (& slow burn romance, & a big twist on an old trope) at all, I would love if you would check out my other multi-chapter WIP, Don't Take This Sinner. <3 Chapter three for that will be out on Friday!


	3. with you as poison in my veins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if I could take you in  
> feeling you deep beneath my skin  
> then I could slip away  
> with you as a poison in my veins  
> I don't wanna fall asleep alone  
> and wake up knowing that I died without the one  
> \- over, blake shelton
> 
> (content warning for violence. & settle in folks, this is a long one and my beta reader left four "how fucking DARE YOU" comments, so)

Oliver’s final year of university seemed to, thankfully, be off to a smoother start. He had gotten into all of the classes he wanted, he had been made captain of the football team, and above all his boyfriend was finally starting to smile again.

Marcus had been shaken up about the entire incident in New York since the day he’d come back that summer. They’d never specifically talked about it again, but Marcus was wearing long sleeves more days than not now, and when there was a loud noise outside of their apartment sometimes he jumped and froze, before he realized what was happening. He let Oliver take over more often, during sex and even just in general, happy to hand over some of the control he usually kept coiled tightly around his fists. Oliver had been worried, but slowly things were getting better. Slowly, Marcus was returning to the person he was supposed to be.

Things were good.

Marcus had taken him out for dinner earlier that week and they had spent every night that week curled up on the couch, Marcus lying with his head resting on Oliver’s lap where he liked it the most. Oliver was already starting to think about what was next for them. He would graduate, and then find a job somewhere. He could save up some money, put away a bit here and a bit there. Buy Marcus a ring, and settle down with his best friend and lover for a peaceful life.

Every time he had those thoughts, he remembered again his parents reaction. Helen had tried to call a few times, but for the most part it had been radio silence and thinking about it made him sick to his stomach. He tried not to think about it. It was better that way.

When Oliver looked back on his three years of school, and his relationship with Marcus, he couldn’t think of a single thing that he would change. And, was there any feeling better than that one?

* * *

It was a cold crisp morning, and Oliver had blamed Marcus’s strange behaviour on that fact. They still ran most days in the mornings even now, but Marcus was not a fan of the cool weather and generally complained endlessly about it. Besides, even though Marcus had been a little _off_ on the run, he dragged Oliver into the shower the moment they got back to the apartment. In fact, Oliver was quite sure it was some of the best sex they’d had in awhile, though he couldn’t quite place his finger on why.

During breakfast, Oliver glanced up from his phone to see Marcus looking at him with a heavy intensity that shifted something in his stomach. “You okay, Marcus?” He asked, setting his toast down on the plate in front of him.

Marcus shrugged, then nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Just…” He trailed off and gestured a hand half-heartedly around them. “Some work stuff on my mind, s’all.”

Oliver couldn’t stop his eyes from narrowing just a bit but he nodded anyways. _Not entirely legal_ , his brain reminded him, but he pushed down the thought just as quickly as it came up. “Right. Okay.” Standing from the table he brushed his hands off on his pants and bent over to give Marcus his customary kiss before leaving the apartment. “I gotta get to class.” Marcus nodded, and Oliver pulled his book bag over his shoulder. 

He was almost out the door when he realized Marcus hadn’t said he loved him yet. There must be something on his mind. Marcus had been slow with his verbal displays of affection at the beginning of the relationship, and even still Oliver said it more. But Marcus usually said it before Oliver left. “Love you!” Oliver called, deciding he would have to do something special that night to perk Marcus back up again.

Oliver was so caught up in his plans for the evening that he was halfway to school when he realized Marcus hadn’t said it back. Resolving to cut practice a little short that afternoon, Oliver tried to push his boyfriends strangeness to the back of his mind and focus on getting through his day of classes.

* * *

Practice was interesting as always. Oliver had only just finished up tryouts for his team, and so they were all still a little shaky on their feet as they got used to playing with each other. He was pleased with the group he had assembled though. Fred and George, who had quickly become his tied-for-third-favourite Weasley’s, were full of energy and always ready to give him suggestions or lend a hand when it was needed. One of his top players was a pretty blonde named Cedric, who could be a bit spacey but was excellent at helping out the new players. Speaking of which, he had three new team-mates that he knew he had to keep an eye on. The first was the last of the Weasley boys - nearly as tall as the twins but not as bulky as Charlie. His name was Ron, and he seemed to have spirit and energy at least, if not quite the same finesse as his brothers.

Then there was Harry Potter. A dark skinned boy with broken glasses and a face that seemed so familiar to Oliver it was nearly unnerving. He had a strange look in his bright green eyes, excitement and trepidation and a bit of worry behind it all, and half his forehead was covered with a scar that almost looked like lightning.

“Car accident.” He had explained with an uncomfortable shrug, when Oliver asked. “I was a baby, don’t remember it.”

Either way, he was an excellent player. Nearly as good as Charlie, Oliver thought. He’d have to get Marcus to come to one of their practices and check the kid out - he might be their golden ticket to the best season they’d had in years.

The third of his new players rubbed him the wrong way for reasons he still couldn’t entirely place. He was a lithe snobby blonde named _Draco Malfoy_ \- what were his parents _thinking_ \- and there was something about him that reminded Oliver too much of Marcus, back when Marcus had been nothing but the annoying prick with too much hair gel. It didn’t help that he always wore long sleeves, and that once in the locker room Oliver was sure he caught the sight of burned skin in a far too familiar pattern on Malfoy’s left forearm. Maybe he was getting paranoid in his old age. It didn’t help that the kid had been pissed at only making second string, and had threatened to have his father - some influential alumni - withdraw his funding from the school.

Despite his ongoing challenges with the new blood, it was a good practice, all told, and Oliver remembered his decision from earlier in the day and let them all go early. Harry and Ron had nearly whooped for joy and jogged off the field, and Oliver could hear them chatting loudly about where they could go to grab a beer and whether or not they should invite Harry’s bookish housemate.

He packed up the equipment as quickly as he could and showered off briefly so he wouldn’t be too gross when he got home. Fishing his phone out of his bag, Oliver stopped his walk out of the changing room when he saw he had two missed calls from Marcus. Two missed calls and a text message that said “call me.”

It wasn’t like Marcus to call him at all, let alone text, and so Oliver quickly tapped at his phone until it was calling Marcus, and then waited for his boyfriend to pick up.

* * *

“Oliver.” The voice on the phone that greeted him sounded… different. Hoarse in a way that was almost like Marcus had been crying.

“Hey baby, what’s wrong?” Oliver crooned, trying to layer on as much love as he could. Marcus had been in such a weird place all morning and Oliver was now seriously worried that something was going to happen.

“Don’t.” Marcus said, almost harshly. “I.” He stopped again, and Oliver could hear him inhaling and exhaling deeply. “Oliver, I need you to just… understand that this isn’t about you, that it’s not your fault, okay?”

Oliver could feel himself shaking his head, before he realized he was on the phone. “Marcus, what are you talking about? What’s gotten into you? Can you just wait for me to get home, I’ll pick up Chinese on the way and we can-”

“I’m leaving.” Marcus cut in.

“What d’you mean, leaving?” Oliver replied, brow furrowing in confusion. He was still standing outside of the locker room and decided he might as well at least start walking in the direction of their apartment while he tried to figure out what Marcus was saying.

“I’m - fuck, Oliver, couldn’t you make this easier for me?” Marcus mumbled, nearly so quiet Oliver barely heard him. “I’m breaking up with you. It’s… We’re done, Wood. Over.”

Oliver stopped mid step, and bit out a sharp laugh as his stomach bottomed out. “What the fuck are you talking about, Marcus?” He retorted. “What kind of a game-”

“I am _breaking up_ with you.” Marcus said, more fiercely this time. Oliver could almost picture the look in his eyes when he said it.

“Don’t be an idiot. You’re not.” He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t be. Everything was _fine_ \- they were fine. Weren’t they?

Marcus let out a rather strangled sounding groan. “Fuck. Can you fucking listen to me for once? This is it, it’s over, we’re fucking _done_!”

And all of a sudden, Oliver felt his world splinter and crumble around him. His blood rushed up into his skull and his heart pounded in ears and his stomach clenched and twisted uncomfortably. “No!” He nearly shouted, shaking his head. “No, you don’t get to just DO that, Marcus! You don’t… it’s been nearly three years. You can’t just… just call me and decide it’s over without even… without even _talking_ to me!”

It was Marcus’s turn to laugh, bitter and cruel. “It’s already decided. Don’t try and… and drag this out. Just. Fuck. Just accept it.”

Oliver was still shaking his head, and he was barely aware of how he was still standing with his legs shaking so violently. He could feel tears welling up and running down his face but he couldn’t bring himself to wipe them away. “No!” He said again. “You don’t just get to do this! You can’t… Marcus, you’re… You’re _everything_ to me, Marcus. You’re… you’re my _family_ , you can’t - you don’t just get to leave me like _this_! This isn’t you, Marcus, please, tell me what’s really going on, I-”

“You knew what you signed up for when you started dating me, Wood. I’m an asshole, you’ve told me that yourself many times. It was fun, but we’re done. Just accept it. Maybe now you can go find yourself a nice pretty girl, go live a quiet life in the country and make your family happy.”

“I won’t!” Oliver’s voice cracked in the middle of the sentence and he nearly choked over the sob bubbling up in his throat. “That’s not what I want, you know that. I don’t know what’s wrong Marcus but, we’ve been together for years! This was more than just… just fun. We _live_ together! I’m in _love_ with you, please, why are you doing this?”

“Don’t you get it?” Marcus bit out, and Oliver felt cold wash through his system at the cruel and nearly mocking tone of his voice. “I have to go.”

“Just wait, please, just let me get home,” Oliver was walking again, nearly running as he tried to wrap his brain around the situation that was falling apart around him. “Please, please just let me talk to you. Let me see you. Please, we can’t do this over the phone, Marcus. You owe me that, at least. I’ll be right there, Marcus, just, just wait for me please, please…” Marcus wasn’t responding, but the call hadn’t ended yet and he took that as a sign that there was maybe still hope. That he could grab Marcus and shake this out of him, figure out what had gotten into his boyfriend. Figure out how to _fix_ it.

He nearly kicked down the door of their apartment in his rush to get in, and when he crossed into the living room his legs really did give out around him. Marcus’s things were gone. The pile of the shoes near the door was pathetic without Marcus’s abundance of shined leather. Pictures were missing off the walls, ones of him and Oliver, of Marcus’s family, the few pieces of strange abstract art he had hung up. The hall closet was nearly empty too, and Oliver knew without checking that the bedroom would be in the same state. He fell apart then, sobs building and breaking and crashing out of his mouth. Oliver realized he was still holding the phone to his ear, that the line still wasn’t dead. “Marcus, Marcus please… Please… I love you-”

The dial tone sounded, and Oliver’s life collapsed around him.

* * *

Oliver had heard the phrase “hitting rock bottom” before, but he had never really grasped what it had meant before now. If he had to wager a guess though, he figured that showing up to practice in his pajamas having only eaten two and a half bars of chocolate that day would probably put him at least pretty damn close to said bottom. He didn’t even bother to change into his football gear, just shuffled out onto the field and sat down on the slightly damp turf.

Who even fucking _cared_ about football anyways?

‘ _Marcus did_ ’ his brain unhelpfully supplied.

“Fuck off.” Oliver bit out.

“Wood?” Someone called, and Oliver groaned and forced himself to look up. One of the twins, he had never actually been able to tell them apart when they were in their uniforms, was jogging over, holding onto his helmet and looking very concerned. “Wood, bro, what’s wrong? You’re not dressed?”

The other twin had joined them now on the field and was sizing Oliver up and down and shaking his head. “What _happened_ , Oliver? Is everything okay? You look like someone _died_?”

“Who died?” That was Cedric, and he too looked perplexed and uncomfortable with Oliver’s disheveled state.

“No one fucking _died_.” Oliver said, his voice flat and dull.

Harry and Ron had joined the group now, and Oliver could see Draco hanging back and talking to Vince and Greg, the three of them laughing almost conspiratorially.

“Jesus.” Harry mumbled, and suddenly was on his knees in front of Oliver. “You don’t look good at all.” Harry stressed, glancing Oliver over as if he was looking for injuries. “Are you sick?”

Oliver shook his head and took a bite of the chocolate bar that had been stashed in his pajama pants pocket.

“Do you want us to call Marcus to come pick you up?” Fred pressed, the whole group of them obviously uncomfortable with trying to care for their captain when he was in such a strange mood.

“No!” Oliver nearly shouted, turning to face the twin and taking a deep, shuddering breath. “No. It wouldn’t matter if you did anyways. He’s not fucking here.”

Oliver pushed himself off the ground and looked at the group, shaking his head. “Fuck if I care what you do today. I dunno. Run laps or some shit.” Their coach was absent - he was only there for practice half the time as his wife had just had another baby - three in as many years, the poor man. They didn’t usually need him, but today Oliver really wished he had someone who could handle this part for him.

Harry clambered to his feet again, stepping away from Oliver as he did so. “Who’s Marcus?” He asked, looking over at Fred and George.

“Boyfriend.” George supplied helpfully.

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.” Cedric turned towards Oliver, and if there was some surprise in his voice at least he did a pretty good job of hiding it.

“I _don’t_.” Oliver hissed, and then he had to close his eyes because it was the first time he had said it and he could feel the tears pushing their way back to the surface. “Didn’t I tell you all to run some fucking laps?”

Oliver didn’t spare them another look as he stalked back off to the locker room. He shouldn’t have even come at all, but there was a small voice in the back of his head screaming about scouts and dreams and the future. He didn’t go to class that day, but practice had been almost like autopilot. Plus, it kept him out of their house. His house. He didn’t think he should be living there still, Marcus was the one who bought it. But the man hadn’t said anything about who was keeping it in his short break up call, and Oliver didn’t really have any money. But it wasn’t easy. Their sheets still smelled like him, and he’d left a sock in the washing machine, and his stupid bloody whiskey was still in the cupboard. And he’d left Oliver, broken hearted and empty, without even a glance back.

* * *

Surprisingly, the next week was full of even more new lows for Oliver. The worst of those had been his trip to the store to buy more liquor, in flip flops and the same pair of pajamas he’d been wearing all week and most definitely in need of a shower. It probably would have been fine, except he’d run into Percy.

“Oliver?” The redhead had asked, worry obvious in his voice. “I’ve been trying to call you for like, three days?”

It was too late for Oliver to turn and run, seeing as they’d made eye contact, and he shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage. “Phone’s been acting up.” He lied. Unfortunately, he had been best friends with Percy Weasley for years, and the man rose a brow in disbelief.

“Well you haven’t responded to my emails or facebook messages either. And I came by yesterday and I knew you were home because I could see your light on and you didn’t answer.”

Oliver winced. He hadn’t fully realized it had been Percy knocking on the door.

“Sorry.” He muttered with not much remorse in his voice, and turned back to the shelf to try and figure out what to buy. He’d drank all of Marcus’s whiskey, even though the taste of it had made him sick with the amount that it reminded him of Marcus. But beer wasn’t strong enough and wine would only make him weepy. Which left him very little options.

Percy grabbed his shoulder and Oliver turned, trying to glare and unable to muster it up. “What?” Oliver managed to bite out, but he was lacking most of his typical hostile aggression.

“George told me about what happened. Or, at least, that _something_ happened. With Marcus. That you’re not together anymore?” Percy tried, pushing carefully.

Oliver suppressed a shudder. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about it? Want me to come over? Shit - Oliver, you have somewhere to stay, right?”

“He left.” Oliver said, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain more. But Percy was still looking at him with that really fucking _earnest_ look on his face and Oliver couldn’t suppress a groan as he raked his hands down his face. “He called me and told me we were done. Didn’t even… couldn’t even say it to my fucking face. Got home and all his stuff was gone. He was gone.” Oliver was shaking his head and trying to hold back the sobs he could already feel rising up through his throat.

Percy’s face fell into a frown. “He didn’t even tell you why? Or say it to your face? What an  _asshole_ -”

“Don’t.” Oliver mumbled. As hurt as he was, as broken and upset and in pain, he couldn’t seem to turn off the piece of his heart that was still so desperately in love with Marcus that he wanted to cry even without the fact of it being over. He couldn’t hear Percy bad mouthing him right now. “Please.” He added, for good measure, because he probably had no right to ask Percy for that.

Percy, thankfully, nodded. “Okay. Okay, I won’t. Oliver please, is there anything I can do? Anything I can help with? Do you want to come stay at my place for a few days? I know it’s a little small, but-”

“No.” Oliver cut him off with a quick shake of his head. “No, I want to buy more alcohol and go home and go back to bed.”

Percy still looked worried, and he looked so much like his mother that if Oliver were in a better mood he probably would have laughed. Instead, he sighed and grabbed two bottles of vodka from the shelf.

“I’ll… text you if I need anything, okay, Perce?”

Although this was obviously not what Percy wanted, Oliver was already walking away and so all he could do was nod. “I’ll be there when you need me!” Percy managed to call, and Oliver hunched his shoulders a little more and tried not to think about well meaning friends and the fact that he should probably at least be making an effort to feel better. He didn't  _want_ to, dammit.

* * *

Oliver was sober, that night, at least.

It wasn’t saying much, but as it had now been nearly two weeks since Marcus left and he had spent nearly every one of the nights since in a drunken stupor, it was saying something. He’d run out of vodka (again, again) and this time hadn’t had the energy to drag himself back to the store. He was barely keeping it together. He’d gone back to football because he’d gotten a panicked phone call from the coach and because even though it didn’t feel like it right now, he still had to work to do, still had a dream that needed chasing. He wasn’t really making it to most of his classes, but he’d gone to a few and that was something too.

Oliver was surviving. Barely.

The television was on in the background. He’d been watching a game but it ended and the news was on now, and he didn’t have the energy in him to change the channel. Too afraid he’d flip onto a show they used to watch together. Too afraid it would shove him off the tiny precipice of stability he’d hauled himself onto. At least there were no bad memories with the news.

He was tuning in and out of what the reporters were saying, nothing really registering. Snippets here about a new bill being passed, a seconds worth about a new movie. And then something that caught his attention.

“Thank you Lee. I’m live in New York City this evening where there has been a very interesting turn of events from yesterday’s mass murder. There is now some suspicion about the involvement of gang violence. Detective Shacklebolt from the New York Police Department is here with me. Detective, what can you tell us about the situation?”

“Thanks, Rita.” Oliver’s eyes focused on the television, on a large black man filling the frame next to a bubbly blonde reporter with pin curled hair. “Well, one of the things we look for in events like this are markings, some way to see if the victims were connected. Especially an incident as violent as last night, not often you see more than thirty casualties on the same scene, and less than a handful of survivors.”

“Did you find something like that, an identifying mark?” The woman pressed, pushing her microphone back in Kingsley’s face. Oliver was rapt with attention now, leaning forwards towards the screen, heart caught and pounding in his throat.

The detective nodded. “Yes. An interesting one. From what we could tell, nearly all of the victims had the same mark branded into their skin - a skull, with a snake wrapped around it.”

Oliver let out a strangled noise and leaned even further forwards, feeling rather like he’d been stabbed. Rita was speaking again. “Very interesting, Detective! The Death Eaters haven’t been active in New York for nearly twenty years. So it looks like New York hasn’t seen the last of them, then? They were quite violent, killed all those innocent civilians-”

“No, no.” Kingsley cut in, smoothly. “I think we have seen the last of them, Ms. Skeeter. Their leader, the notorious Tom Riddle, was killed yesterday. As were, from what we can determine, nearly all of his followers. We’re still looking into what happened here, but I think the city is safe from the Death Eaters for good now.”

Oliver was choking back sobs, trying to swallow them down, shaking his head in disbelief. The news casters had started talking about a story from years ago, the last time the Death Eaters had been on the scene. Oliver was barely paying attention, unable to stop thinking about Marcus. He couldn’t get the picture out of his mind, Marcus’s smooth pale skin ruined by that horrible mark. And now he might be - _no_. Oliver couldn’t think about that either.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and did the only thing he could think of, his brain too caught up in stress and fear, pushing the heartbreak down and out of the way for the moment. The football team had a mass facebook message. Someone could help.

 **Oliver: 11:02 PM  
** _who can drive me to new york_

 **Oliver: 11:02 PM  
** _like right now_

 **Oliver: 11:03 PM  
**_I’ll buy you a burger_  
_or 2  
_ whatever

 **Draco: 11:05 PM  
** _You realize it takes more than forty hours to drive to New York from here?_

 **Oliver: 11:05 PM  
** _ten burgers?_

 **Harry: 11:06 PM  
** _ron - do u have class tmrw?_

 **Ron: 11:06 PM  
** _just phil. wut a stupid fucking class, its all existential & shit _

**Oliver: 11:06 PM  
**_seriously I need to leave like 10 hours ago  
I don’t ask much from you guys_  
_I have to get to new york_  
please

 **Ron: 11:08 PM  
** _wut’s ur address?_

 **Oliver: 11:08 PM  
**_22 Bushwick Ave  
apt 12_  
_???_  
why?

 **Harry: 11:22 PM  
** _wood let’s go_

 **Oliver: 11:22 PM  
** _what?_

 **Harry: 11:24 PM  
** _we’re on your street - blue ford - let’s GO you wanna get to new york we gotta leave now_

Oliver had never particularly wanted to kiss Harry Potter before, but he had the thought, as he tugged on a pair of jeans and grabbed his toothbrush and a clean shirt on his way out of his apartment, that at that moment he could very easily do just that.

* * *

It was a _long_ drive.

Ron and Harry were good sports. They traded off on driving back and forth for the first ten hours, chatting animatedly about football teams, sports standings, new movies. Ron had interesting taste in music to say the least, but Oliver didn’t care. He also had a beat up very old blue Ford that was supposed to have gone to Percy, but there was a story Oliver couldn’t quite follow about a family pet and a dead rat and somehow, Ron had gotten the privilege of keeping the car during the school year.

Oliver was tuning in and out of the conversation, clutching his phone tightly in his hands. He’d texted Marcus six times so far, and called twice - both times had gone directly to a curt voicemail message. It wasn’t helping. When he narrowed back in on the conversation, the two younger men in the front seat were bitching about Draco Malfoy. Something about him being a stuck up pretentious ass, and then Harry had made some comment about the fact that at least it was a _nice_ ass, and Ron started gagging so hard he’d nearly driven them off the road.

Oliver took over for a bit.

Driving was good. It kept his brain away from Marcus, mostly. He still couldn’t stop thinking about how angry he was, how hurt he was. He was still nursing a broken heart but even if Marcus wasn’t in love with him any more, Oliver couldn’t stomach the thought of him dead. Couldn’t stomach the thought of him gone. It was funny, how quickly priorities shifted in the face of an emergency.

They took turns sleeping in the back seat and stopped for snacks and coffee and bathroom breaks and gas fill ups but for the most part, with the three of them egging each other on and Harry and Ron doing their damndest to keep Oliver distracted, they drove almost constantly.

At one point, when the three of them were awake, Oliver couldn’t help it. “Why did you guys volunteer to drive me?” He asked.

Harry shrugged nonchalantly. “You needed help. Ron had a car, and I had a four day weekend.”

“Always up for an adventure.” Ron filled in, but he also glanced away from the road for a minute and flashed Oliver a careful smile. If Oliver had thought that he couldn’t love the Weasley’s more than he already did, he was wrong. “And the burgers.” Ron added, and Oliver laughed for the first time in what felt like years.

“Why didn’t you take a plane?” Harry asked, a grin creeping over his lips.

Oliver flushed with embarrassment. “I literally didn’t even think about it. Also I’m broke as shit.”

Ron laughed now, and shook his head. “Always knew you had a one track mind, Cap, but I thought it was just about football.”

“Two tracks.” Oliver mumbled, unable to help himself. Football, and Marcus - too tangled up to pull apart even if he wanted to. He didn’t. Though most days they were one in the same anyways.

Five hours away from New York, while Oliver was driving, Harry sat up with a start and a muttered “oh shit.”

Oliver glanced over quickly. “What?” He asked, wondering if he needed to pull the car over. They’d stopped about an hour ago and he really wanted to make it at least another two hours before they stopped for the last time before they arrived in the city. “What’s wrong?” He pressed again, because Harry was absorbed in his phone.

“They released a list of the casualties.” Harry mumbled, and Oliver let out a slightly pained noise. He forced himself to keep his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road even as he felt his heart began to race.

The silence dragged on too long and Oliver wanted to _scream_ but then Harry was pressing a hand to his shoulder, and Oliver could see him smiling out of the corner of his eye. “He’s not on it. He isn’t on the list.”

Oliver couldn’t stop the choked sob that bubbled up out of his throat. “Thank fuck.” He responded, trying to keep himself in check. He wanted to _scream_ and he wanted to _dance_ and he still really wanted to cry, because this had not only been the worst two weeks of his life but also some of the worst two days, caught in this state of panic and fear and _not knowing_ that made his entire body ache.

Now, they just needed to get to New York.

* * *

An hour outside of the city, Oliver started calling hospitals. For the most part, no one exactly wanted to give away information. Oliver promised he was a family member, promised he was just worried. But apparently people had been calling around, trying to figure out where the remaining gang members were. Luckily, Oliver knew Marcus’s middle name, and his date of birth, and the school he had gone to, and whatever other information the hospitals kept asking him for to verify that he actually _was_ a relative.

Oliver was getting frantic, after the sixth hospital assured him that no, no one by that name had ever been there. It was Harry who suggested St. Mungo’s. Apparently it was a smaller hospital, but they had an excellent trauma unit, and according to Harry (who had lived in the city for a few years) were close to the part of town that he figured everything must have gone down in.

When the nurse on the other end of the line confirmed that yes, they did have someone by that name currently staying at the hospital, Oliver broke down into tears. He sobbed and hiccupped and Ron awkwardly patted his back from the back seat until he could breathe again.

Marcus was alive.

Marcus was _alive_ and Oliver was _furious_ but finally the rollercoaster his brain seemed to have been on for the last few days was starting to slow down. Finally he was starting to feel like he could _breathe_ again. Even if Marcus didn’t love him - which he couldn’t think about too deeply or he’d cry all over again - he was alive and Oliver, after what he’d been through in the past few days, thought that he could probably live with that if he had to. He could live without Marcus, as long as he knew Marcus was _alive_.

Maybe.

Harry pulled up to the hospital and got out with Oliver, leaving Ron to find somewhere to park the car. Oliver was buzzing with nervous energy now, wondering what state Marcus would be in, wondering if he’d get kicked out of the room for even trying. Wondering if he was as beautiful as Oliver was remembering.

He realized, a minute or two too late, that he might not actually get a chance to find out.

“No, I’m sorry dear, we really can’t let in anyone who isn’t direct family.” The woman at the front nursing station had barely even glanced at Oliver, just asked to see his ID and who he was visiting and turned him away almost instantly.

Oliver was shaking his head, leaning over the desk. “No, no. You don’t understand. He’s my… he was my… we’re…”

“Like I said, hospital policy. Friendship doesn’t cut it.”

“We’re not _friends_!” Oliver nearly snarled, wanting to rip his hair out. “He is my _boyfriend_ , he is the _love of my life_ and we just drove forty fucking hours-”

“Sir, you’re really going to need to calm down or I’m going to have to call security.”

Oliver turned away from the desk and lifted his hands up to his face, eyes closed tight. He kept thinking that he must have cried out all of his tears, that there couldn’t possibly be anything left to give. And then a whole new wave would surprise him out of nowhere.

Harry stepped up to the desk now, leaning against it. Oliver wasn’t paying much attention to the small talk between the two, but as he started to catch his breath again he also started to listen.

Harry was speaking nonchalantly, looking uncomfortably at home in the start whites of the hospital. “Exactly,” he was saying to the woman behind the desk, nodding. “That’s what I was telling my friend here, that we’re lucky Marcus ended up at your hospital.”

Oliver didn’t remember this, and so he dropped his hands and turned to watch.

“I know you all worked so hard - some of the best doctors and nurses I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. Of course,” Harry dropped his voice and paused and the woman at the desk seemed to lean in a little, captivated by his bright eyes and easy smile. “Of course, you couldn’t save my parents. But, no one could have. Really, the fact that you were able to save me… I’ll always be in debt to this hospital. Even after funding the entire new surgical wing - it was the least I could do, when I was finally given the money my parents willed to me.” The confidence in Harry’s voice belied the fact that his body posture had changed and he seemed all of a sudden like a too small boy in too large clothing, like he wanted to turn and run. He lifted a dark hand and casually brushed the hair away from his forehead, revealing that eerie scar that looked like lightning, or like a whole series of cracks trailing down and away from-

Oliver almost gasped when it all hit him. Images from the news, night after night, about a toddler who’d been shot in the head. Whose parents had been murdered by none other than Tom Riddle himself just because his dad had been assigned to their case and had gotten a little too close. Who wasn’t supposed to live, who should have died a hundred times on an operating table. Who’d _survived_ , and angered the gang leader so much that he’d disappeared. For nearly twenty years. Oliver had been so young, his parents held him close and promised that nothing like that would ever happen to them. That this little boy had been saved by a _miracle_ , by _God_. That he lived to prove that there was still good in the world.

No wonder Harry offered to drive. No wonder someone had tried to kill them all.

The woman at the front desk was gaping slightly, shaking her head. “Mr. Potter? Harry Potter?” She asked, carefully.

Harry nodded, trying clearly to shift out of his discomfort but not able to shake it. “Yeah.”

She was on her feet before she could help it, reaching out and grasping his hand. “I have to say, Mr. Potter. Your story was part of the reason I wanted to become a nurse in the first place. You just, there was just so much _hope_ , that senseless violence wasn’t going to win in our city. That if a toddler could scare off someone like, well, like _him_ , then maybe he wasn’t so scary after all.”

Harry was still nodding, trying to brush off her compliments. “Yeah, thanks. I mean. I really didn’t do much. Just got shot in the head and managed not to kick the bucket.” He tried to laugh but her face paled more and Oliver couldn’t keep the grimace off his own lips.

“I know it’s asking a lot,” Harry began, looking down at his hands and then back at Oliver. “But, I can vouch for Oliver. He’s a really good guy. And, well. I don’t really know his boyfriend. But I know that Oliver’s been sick with worry the whole time, since we heard. It would just… It would really mean a lot…” And then he blinked his long lashes, did his best version of puppy dog eyes.

Oliver, for the second time in just over as many days, thought that Harry deserved a kiss.

The woman sighed, but she was nodding as well. “I really, really shouldn’t, you know. Could lose my job for this. But, well. I think we should all sometimes step back and remember what it means to hope. Besides - who can really say no to young love?”

It was clear that the woman had no idea who Marcus actually was, the circumstances of his visit to the hospital. Oliver had looked up the list of casualties himself and noticed that they didn’t mention the names of the handful of survivors, and wondered what that meant. Wondered what it meant that his boyfriend - _ex_ -boyfriend - was a member of one of the cruelest gangs in the country. Wondered why it wasn’t bothering him quite as much as it should have.

“Gun wound.” The nurse murmured to herself, clearly reading over his chart on the screen in front of her. She shook her head. “Such a shame. Room three fourteen, dears.” She said, looking up from the computer screen.

Harry grinned and pushed at Oliver. “Go, I’ll wait here with Ron.” Oliver nodded and barely had a chance to thank him, as he turned down the hallway and took off towards the elevators.

* * *

Oliver had frozen outside the door to the room. The numbers 314 were big in front of his face. And he could hear a beeping leaking under the door. Steady and true and a sign of _life_ and maybe that should have been enough. Maybe he should have taken the noise as proof that Marcus was okay and then ran. Because, the more he thought about it, the more he was angry that he didn’t notice sooner. That he didn’t realize something was wrong. That he didn’t trust his gut.

His boyfriend might be a murderer. Or worse.

Was there worse than a murderer?

Oliver didn’t know and that scared him too, that he couldn’t imagine what brilliant stupid Marcus got up to those weekends away. Family business. Was it rape and torture? Did he come home and drink to forget the people he had hurt? He could never picture Marcus with blood on his hands. He was terrifying sometimes, yes. Aggressive and loud and _rude_ but there was a softness underneath it all that Oliver had fallen for deeply. Caring and kindness and love that needed to be shared.

Ultimately, Oliver’s heart won out. And his heart needed to see him. Just to see him and to make sure he was really truly okay. And then he could leave.

So he pushed open the door.

Marcus was lying half propped up in the bed, connected to tubes and wires and machines that beeped and something that dripped down from a bag. He was in one of those horrendous stiff and starchy hospital gowns and his eyes were closed and he looked more peaceful than Oliver had seen him in months. Oliver couldn’t _see_ any gun would, but he assumed that just meant it was somewhere currently hidden under said gown. Hoped it wasn’t too close to anything that important.

Oliver couldn’t hold back the sob that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in while he wasn’t sure if Marcus really was okay. He quickly shut his mouth, tried to stay quiet. He would just look for another minute, memorize the lines of Marcus’s face and the soft curve of his throat and then he would _leave_ because they couldn’t do this. Marcus didn’t want to do this.

Oliver was still telling himself he was going to leave in just a second when Marcus’s eyes opened. And then he froze, because Marcus looked at him with those big dark brown eyes, and Oliver was acutely aware that he was wearing the same shirt he had been wearing for far too many hours now, that he had thrown on his scruffy old work boots because Marcus wasn’t there to tell him off for not wearing real shoes, that he looked like a total mess. Then Marcus clenched his jaw and looked like he wanted to say something but Oliver didn’t know what it was and in his attempt to push down all his sadness and hurt what came up instead was _anger_.

“What the _fuck_!” Oliver nearly yelled, stepping in further to the room and shutting the door behind him. “What the actual _fuck_ how- how fucking _dare_ you?!”

Marcus blinked up at him and lifted his head just a little off the pillow. He frowned, forehead creased as he tried to process what was happening. “I’m confused?” He managed to say, voice hoarse and rough.

Oliver sneered down at him, though he knew it was missing most of the malice a good sneer should have. “That would be the _gun wound_ , you douchebag.” He spat, but he stepped closer too, needing to know, needing to double check that Marcus was _okay_.

Marcus’s hand dropped instinctively down to his stomach and he winced slightly at the contact and all of a sudden it was too much for Oliver, too much to handle and his anger was washed away by tears once again.

“You promised,” Oliver managed to choke out, voice cracking with bitterness and sorrow as his eyes welled up. “You _promised_ me that you would be okay, that everything would be okay.” He stepped closer again and then lifted a hand to rub harshly over his face, trying to scrub away the pain and failing. Marcus had turned him into such a sap, though he still wasn’t quite sure how. “You said that we were safe, you _promised_ , and I believed you. I… I trusted you.”

Marcus swallowed hard, and reached a hand out towards Oliver, leaving it hanging in the air when Oliver didn’t reach back. “Look.” He mumbled, glancing down at himself and then back up. “Look, Ollie. I’m okay.” He tried again, closing his own eyes for a moment. “I’m safe now Ol. They’re all gone now.” He looked so broken that Oliver wanted to crawl onto the bed and wrap his arms around the taller man, kiss him until he didn’t hurt anymore. But he couldn’t.

“How… How could you, Marcus? I thought I knew you. How could you join them?”

Marcus shook his head, looking down at his hands.

“Did you hurt people?” Oliver asked, pressing at an area that was obviously a sore spot. He couldn’t help it. He needed to know.

“No!” Marcus said, so frantically Oliver nearly stepped backwards. “No. I was… You can’t, you can’t tell anyone, Ol.” When Oliver, finally, nodded, Marcus continued. “I was working for the NYPD, for Kingsley. They… The Death Eaters threatened my dad, and he told me not to do anything but I had to… I had to _try_. So I’ve been kind of, uh-”

“Is he okay?” Oliver butted in, unable to let Marcus finish his sentence without knowing. “Your dad?”

Marcus clenched his jaw and gave one firm head shake. “No.”

Oliver swallowed down another sob and finally caught Marcus’s hand, sitting down on the tiny hospital bed next to him. “Fuck.” He mumbled, and Marcus nodded in agreement.

“I was trying to keep him safe. And… And I was trying to keep _you_ safe. Joined up with the NYPD. There was a big deal going down. And I needed… I couldn’t have them being suspicious. Riddle was already questioning my loyalty for not moving there. They didn’t know about you but… they would have found out.”

Oliver couldn’t help the fact that his heart had started to pound again. “That’s why you left.” He filled in, hoping to god he was right.

“I just wanted you to be safe. It broke my heart, Oliver. Wanted to call you every day… I had to leave, before you got home. Wouldn’t have been able to go if I had to look at you. I had to run like a coward. But. It wasn’t… I wasn’t supposed to get hurt. Got caught in the crossfire, shot in the stomach. Was gonna come right back to you, if you wanted me, but had to get patched up first. Lost my phone - they took it as evidence.” Marcus was taking deep breaths now to get through his story, and Oliver was starting to feel warm again, safe again, for the first time in weeks.

“I was stupid.” Marcus finally admitted. “Shouldn’t have… I just thought it would be easier. If you thought… I didn’t want you. Easier than explaining the truth. Didn’t want you to know. You’re too good for me, Ollie.”

Oliver couldn’t stop the snort of laughter and just as Marcus was starting to look hurt, he leaned forward and caught Marcus’s face, holding his jaw. “Don’t be an idiot.” He mumbled, and pressed their lips together, and his heart soared and finally, finally, it was like coming home again.

* * *

Marcus broke the kiss, leaning his head against Oliver’s forehead and taking a few more deep breaths.

“Can you do me a favour?” He mumbled, and Oliver - too caught up in the fact that maybe they were going to be _okay_ \- nodded.

“My coat. Can you… There’s something in the pocket. Can you get it for me?”

Oliver frowned as he pulled back but turned to glance at where Marcus’s coat had been draped over a chair near the back of the room. He let go of Marcus’s hand reluctantly but went to the coat, digging through the pockets. When his fingers closed around a small square box, he couldn’t help the fact that his heart leapt in his chest.

Turning back towards the bed, Oliver reclaimed his seat on the edge of it and pressed the box into Marcus’s hands.

Marcus cleared his throat and then winced at the amount of motion that caused in his abdomen. “Look.” He frowned, and shook his head. “I’m gonna fuck this up.” He admitted.

Oliver was more or less stunned into silence and he shook his head in disbelief.

“I was going to… I had a plan. Restaurant. Walk in the park. Take you to the field. Then I had to leave… But. But Oliver, I’m safe now. Kingsley is gonna make sure I’m safe. We can… can go back out west, never set foot in this fucking death trap of a city-”

“Marcus.” Oliver pressed, watching as Marcus derailed himself. A rare occurrence, for Marcus to be the one with too many words.

Marcus flushed just slightly and caught Oliver’s hand, popping the box open to reveal a simple golden band inside. “Marry me?” He tried again, looking more vulnerable than Oliver had ever seen him.

Oliver bit down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from crying for the hundredth time that day. He managed a watery laugh. “What,” he mumbled, unable to tear his eyes away from the ring. “You’re not even going to get down on one knee?”

Marcus dropped his hand, and started to shift forward, and Oliver yelped, pressing a hand against his boyfriend’s chest to keep him in place. “Fuck, no! I don’t need you puking on _my_ shoes.” He said, voice breathy and light with the laughter that was starting to bubble up in his chest.

Marcus nodded once, closed his eyes. “Right. Well.” He took a breath again and Oliver watched as he started to shut himself down, and Marcus and snapped the ring box closed. “I-”

“You’re not that much of an asshole, Flint.” Oliver mumbled, and leaned back overtop of Marcus, hovering his face inches away from the other man's. “Obviously, obviously I’m going to marry you. Yes. _Yes._ ” And he pressed his lips down against Marcus’s, feeling his boyfriend - his _fiance_ \- grin against his lips and knowing, for the first time in too long, that he most _definitely_ had made the right decision.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it! It's over! I hope you don't hate me TOO much - I am a sucker for happy endings so that's what you get, haha. 
> 
> Thanks to nymphadoraholtzmann for beta-ing! <3 You can also check out the AMAZING mood board she made for me & the fic right here: https://nymphadoraholtzmann.tumblr.com/post/154445375365/marcus-flint-x-oliver-wood-moodboard-muggle
> 
> Thank you to all of you who have commented, kudos'd, or reblogged me on tumblr - I love getting to share this with all of you. 
> 
> I'm so happy to be done this fic - it grabbed me and didn't let go but it feels awesome to get something finished and sent out into the world. It went in a bit of a different direction than my original plan, so thank you for sticking with me. As always, I would love if you commented, sent me a tumblr ask, kudos'd, anything, it means a lot.
> 
> (And, if you're into Dramione, I would love if you checked out my other WIP - Don't Take This Sinner!)


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